Page 129 of The Crowned Garza

Quiet. Deserted. Dusty, damaged road half-yielded to wild grass. An abandoned old factory.

I climb to my feet then look down at my slightly skinned palms. It should hurt, but it doesn’t. Maybe because the ache in my heart is so much greater, it drowns out such petty pain.

Taking a step forward, I look at the cracky road ahead, at the orange-purple sky above as the sun disappears, at the group of black birds picking at the dry earth in the distance, and I just…plop right back down on the asphalt, pull my knees up to my chest, press my forehead between them, and refuse tofeelanymore.

~

I DON’T KNOWhow much time passes with me sitting there in the middle of the road, not crying, not feeling, not knowing, just breathing—halfheartedly, when the sounds of approaching vehicles fill the air, bright headlights bursting through the safe space of my knees.

I don’t look up.

It’s the cavalry.Mycavalry. Aren’t I fortunate?

Tires halt. Car doors slam. Boots hit the ground. Orders shouted, directions given.

And then there’s a set of footfalls that stands out from the others. Footfalls I’m familiar with, even at that unusually hurried pace. Those feet aren’t laced up in shitkicker boots, but expensive, custom-made, spotlessly polished dress shoes.

Running. Those feet are running to me.

His scent envelops me before his arms do.

Safety. Broken promises. Lies. Home. Love.

“Regina.” His voice is as cracked as the old, forgotten road we’re on. “I didn’t protect you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you.”

Once he’s sufficiently squeezed the life out of me, he cups the back of my bent neck, massaging coaxingly, reassuringly, urging me to look up. “Let me see you,bella.”

When I reluctantly lift my head and he scans my face, his jaw tightens. Tenderly, he sweeps his fingers across my cheek and asks through gritted teeth, “What happened here?”

Not at all interested in talking about that with him and have him scold me, I shake my head and force myself to look past his devastatingly perfect face. Red Cage agents are all around us, checking every inch of the area. But about three feet behind Saint, is Reuben, watching us with a deep frown—or dawning realization.

Reuben’s a fraternal Garza. To me, he’s never been anything less than an older brother. Without a doubt, he’ll be just as pissed as my brothers would to find out about us.

Dipping my head, I whisper, “Stop. Get up. Reuben is watching.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he grinds out. “I want to know what happened here. Who do I need to gut?”

Why does he always go straight to murder?

I try to push him away, but his fury is blocking his common sense.

“Guy—”

“Saint,” he corrects. “I’m your Saint,regina.”

Before I can attempt to push him off again, Reuben is there, towering over us.

“Dunno what’s going on here,” he growls low, “but you need to break it the fuck up before Trent circles back. This isnothow you want him to find out.”

When Saint continues to be stubborn about it, I forcibly shove him away from me and climb to my feet. Just as another vehicle comes speeding down the street and brakes with a screech.

Trent jumps out, speaking into his earpiece and signaling the others to “wrap it up,” all while he makes a beeline for me. He brushes past Saint, pulls me into his arms, and hugs me tight.

Over his shoulder, I peer at Saint. His hands are clasped on top of his head now, his expression a mixture of helplessness and suppressed rage. Reuben throws an arm around his shoulders and whispers into his ear, leading him away.

It’s strange and almost sad for me to see Saint so out of sorts. He’s the man who seeseverythingcoming. The man who’s always ten steps ahead. The man who controls and manipulates and thwarts and troubleshoots.

But he didn’t see this coming. Didn’t see me getting taken. Didn’t foresee having no knowledge where I’d be held. And I can’t imagine how out of control he must’ve felt in all that time I’ve been gone.