Page 24 of The Crowned Garza

He shrugs in a “suit yourself” manner and unfolds from the car.

I hop out and trail after him to the elevator. He presses his thumb to the small screen of a mounted monitor, and a disembodied voice returns something in another language before the doors slide open. He ushers me in, scans his other thumb on the inner monitor, and then we’re sealed in and ascending.

An excessive amount of security, but okay. Maybe it’s necessary for wherever he’s taking me.

With a strained sigh, he drops his head back, looks up at the ceiling, and mutters under his breath, “What the fuck am I doing?”

“Helping out your boss’s sister,” I supply.

He rolls his head in my direction and slides his amber gaze over me. This time a strangled noise leaves him before he slips a hand inside his pocket and gets out a black handkerchief. In a single stride, he’s in front of me, and in the next second, he’s crouched before me.

Mortification scorches me from the inside out when he gently wipes the handkerchief up my inner thigh, up beneath my skimpy dress…collecting blood.

Ground, swallow me up now.I’m freaking bleeding and don’t even feel it. Just when I thought tonight couldn’t get any more humiliating.

Earlier with Dom, there were just splotches of blood, and I figured that was it. Guess not.

Feigning indifference, I cross one leg in front of the other and squeeze my thighs together. “Huh. I was wondering where the blood was…”

Saint looks up at me with hard eyes and a tight jaw. He’s inexplicably pissed and he wants me to see it.

I brush my thumb against his rigid jawline. “Why’re you mad?”

At my touch, he closes his eyes and exhales. As if catching himself in the act of wrongdoing, he almost immediately snaps them open again.

“Was I supposed to stay a virgin forever?”

If he grinds his teeth any harder, they’ll shatter.

Mercifully, the elevator chimes open and he straightens up. In the next breath, I’m scooped up in a princess-carry. He strides out of the elevator, which leads directly into an industrial loft.

As he carries me through the expansive space, I take in as much of it as I can from this angle. Wide-open layout, high ceilings, giant columns. A construction medley of concrete, glass, and steel. Lots of leather and dark wood that exudes an uber-masculine vibe. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows.

Saint carries me to a luxe bathroom outfitted with accented tiles, white marble, dark cabinetry, and a large walk-in shower. He sets me down and moves around me to run the shower, then points me to where bathrobes, towels, and toiletries are. Even in such a large space, his presence is overpowering.

“Thanks,” I mutter when he’s done.

“Are you hungry?”

My stomach is stuffed to the gills with bitter embarrassment. “No, but I’ll take a cup of ginger tea, if you have it.”

With a sharp nod, he leaves, pulling the door closed behind him.

Sparing not a minute, I strip off my blood-stained clothes and stuff them into a disposable bag from the cabinetry. If I could light them on fire and burn away the shame of this night, I would. Alas, I settle for dumping them in the small trash bin.

Only when the water is spraying down on my head do I allow the tears to run free. The shower setting is perfectly warm—which my achingpunanigreatly appreciates—and I feel safe under it, unjudged.

Once I’m out of tears, I reluctantly step out of the shower and make sure to don a liner with my fresh pair of panties in case I start bleeding again. Fully prepared to lose my V-card, I had planned the night carefully, packing extra pairs of undies, panty liners, wet wipes, and cleansers in my purse. When only splotches of blood came after the act, I merely cleaned up with wipes before leaving. Which has turned out to be a huge oversight.

What a hot mess I am.

By the time I walk out of the bathroom, I’m wearing more than just one of Saint’s large black towels with cotton panties underneath. My “big-girl panties” are also back on. All the shame, all the pathetic feelings, have been forcefully washed down the drain. Little girls weep. Grown womendeal.

Ambling out into the loft, I stop short when I spot Saint standing by the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, head down as he types away on his phone. Bow tie gone, suspenders hanging down, shirt untucked and unbuttoned, showing peeks of ink.

This man has nevernotbeen perfectly put together, so it’s haltingly jarring to see him in this state. It feels like I’m intruding, stealing a firsthand peek of something very few get to see.

Without looking up from his phone, he says, “Are you still bleeding? Do you need supplies?”