Prologue

Saint at five years old

Life sucked.

Parents sucked.

Gripping the metal handles of the swing, Saint glared down at the floor. He hated his name, and his mom hated his name. She didn’t want him to be called after the club that his father ruled. The MC was always a problem for his mother. She was always saying horrible things.

“You know, swings are not for being sad or moody.”

Saint gripped the handles of the swing as he was suddenly pushed firmly in the back. He looked behind him, in time to see a girl with wild red hair, giggling.

“Leave me alone!”

“Oh, someone is a moody pants.” She stood in front of him, and he had no choice but to glare back at her.

“Leave me alone.”

“You’re on the swing, so swing.” She pushed his knees, and he glared at her.

“I don’t want to swing.”

She sighed, and then took a seat on the swing beside him. “You scared?”

“Of what?”

“School.”

“No. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“I’m scared. My cousin, she only comes down from the city, but she has like, really long blonde hair, and she said that I was going to get bullied for my hair. She said it looked like blood, and no one likes blood, or girls with freckles.”

Saint simply stared at her as she kept talking. Her voice was lovely, even if he didn’t want to like her.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“Your hair is lovely.”

She smiled at him, and he couldn’t help but smile back. “We’re going to be best friends. I’m Natasha.”

“Saint.”

“Your name is Saint?”

“Yeah, my dad named it after his club.”

“I’ve heard of those. Daddy says they’re bad men.”

“I’m not bad,” Saint said.

“I know. Now, let me push you on the swing.”

Natasha got off the swing and started to push him. Instead of fighting her, Saint lifted his legs, and allowed her to push him so that he could fly.

****

Saint at nine years old