Page 129 of Savage Saint
My hands still on the bandage. "What is it?"
She opens her mouth, then closes it again. I can see her internal struggle, the way she's fighting against years of conditioning that taught her vulnerability was weakness.
"I..." She takes a shaky breath. "When I was in there, facing him, I realised..."
I wait, not pushing, letting her find her words in her own time.
"I realised that I was stronger than I thought," she finishes, but there's something hollow in the words. Like they're not what she really wanted to say.
Disappointment flickers through me, but I push it aside. She's not ready. After everything she's been through, I can't expect her to bare her soul just because I want her to.
"You are strong," I tell her, securing the bandage with gentle touches. "Stronger than anyone should have to be."
She watches as I smooth the edges of the medical tape, her breathing shallow. When I'm finished, she doesn't immediately pull her arm away. Instead, she lets it rest in my hands, my thumbs unconsciously stroking the unmarked skin above the bandage.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"For coming with me. For not trying to stop me. For..." She swallows hard. "For seeing me. Not the weapon, not the broken thing, just... me."
Something fierce and protective rises in my chest. I lift my hand to cup her cheek, my thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realise had fallen.
"Butterfly," I say, my voice rough with emotion I can barely contain, "you are the furthest thing from broken I've ever seen. You're fucking magnificent."
She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering closed. For a moment, we're suspended in this tiny space, the world reduced to just us and the quiet hum of the jet engines.
Then she pulls back, the moment shattered like glass.
"We should get back," she says, standing abruptly. "Your brothers will wonder what's taking so long."
I want to pull her back, want to finish what we started, but I let her go. She needs time, needs space to figure out who she is now that she's free.
Back in the main cabin, Kasia settles into her seat with her arms wrapped around herself again. But she's not as closed off as before. When Luca makes a joke about the flight attendant service, she actually cracks a smile.
She reaches for the canvas bag she's kept close throughout the flight, her fingers careful as she opens it. Inside, I catch glimpses of official papers. Documents that were probably locked away in Jerzy's safe, pieces of an identity he tried to steal from her.
"I've never seen my birth certificate," she says quietly, pulling out a folded paper. "He kept everything locked away. Said I didn't deserve to know who I was before he found me."
I move to sit beside her, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to give her space. "You want to look at it together?"
She nods, unfolding the document with shaking hands. Standard government issue, the kind of bureaucratic paperwork that makes a life official. But as she smooths it flat on her lap, my eyes scan the details and my breath catches.
There, in neat black type: Date of Birth: 12th December, 1999.
12.12.
The same date. The exact same fucking date.
My hand flies to my breast pocket before I can stop myself, fingers finding the worn paper with desperate urgency. I don't pull it out, can't risk her seeing it yet, but I know what's written there. Know it by heart.
Flames can burn. Flames can heal. Her red flames will make you kneel.
And then the numbers:12.12
The date I thought marked my mother's death. The day I lost everything that mattered.
But it wasn't about death at all.
