Page 139 of Savage Saint
My fingers drift unconsciously to my left hip, where Nico's brand sits like a permanent reminder of the mission that brought me here. The 'N' has healed, but it's still raised and angry-looking, a scar that represents everything I was trained to be.
I remember it all now, lying still as the iron seared my flesh, Nicolosi watching from the corner with his cigar. "Make it real," he'd instructed. And I had. I'd endured it willingly, part of the elaborate plan to infiltrate the Santoros. Part of becoming the perfect weapon.
But that's not who I am anymore.
Angelo crosses the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me. His eyes are dark, intense, fixed on my face like he's memorising every detail.
"I researched skin grafts," he continues, his jaw tightening. "Spent hours reading surgical texts, planning procedures. I even thought about cutting a piece from my own hip to cover it completely."
The image hits me like a physical blow. Angelo, methodical and determined, carving into his own flesh to give me his skin. To replace Nico's mark with a piece of himself. My throat constricts with an emotion I can't name.
"But I'd never be able to do the procedure safely alone," he admits, frustration bleeding into his tone. "And I..." His hands clench into fists. "I couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching you like that. Anyone else seeing you vulnerable, cutting into you, marking you."
I reach for him instinctively, my fingers covering his clenched fist. "Angelo—"
"Then I realised something." His eyes meet mine, and there's something almost desperate in them. "We don't need to erase it completely. We can transform it."
He shifts closer, his hand hovering over my hip but not quite touching. "May I?"
I nod, not trusting my voice. His fingers are gentle as they trace the air just above the brand, careful not to make contact with the sensitive skin.
"See the vertical line here?" His finger follows the left stroke of the 'N', tracing it upward. "This becomes the left curve of the infinity symbol. And this diagonal—" He traces the connecting slash that cuts through the middle. "We extend it outward and curve it back, creating the right loop. The bottom points connect to complete the symbol."
My breath catches as I visualise it. The harsh, angular 'N' that has marked me as property, transformed into flowing, eternal curves. An infinity symbol. Forever. Always.
"Because what we have," Angelo's voice drops, "it's forever, Butterfly."
Tears prick at my eyes, but these aren't tears of pain or fear. They're something else entirely. Something that feels like hope, like healing, like the possibility of turning something ugly into something beautiful.
"You want to... cut me?" The words should sound terrifying, but they don't. Not when it's Angelo. Not when I can see the careful planning in his movements, the surgical precision he's inherited from years of medical training.
"Only if you want me to." His hand finds my face, thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realise had fallen. "Only if you trust me to transform his mark into something that belongs to us."
I lean into his touch, closing my eyes. Trust. Such a simple word for something so complicated. But with Angelo, it's not complicated at all. I trust him with my life, with my body, withmy heart. I trust him to see me as more than a collection of scars and broken pieces.
"And after?" I ask, opening my eyes to meet his. "What happens after you mark me?"
Something dangerous flickers in his expression. "Then you mark me."
My pulse quickens. "What?"
"The same symbol. Same place, just on the other hip." His voice is rough with want. "I want to match you, Butterfly. I want us to choose each other, claim each other."
The thought sends heat spiralling through me. Not just receiving his mark, but giving him mine. Making him bleed for me the way I'll bleed for him. The idea of holding the scalpel, of having that power over him, makes something fierce and primal stir in my chest. For the first time in my life, I would be the one in control. The one choosing to mark rather than being marked.
"Yes." The word comes out as barely a breath. "Yes, I want that."
Angelo's eyes darken, pupils dilating with something that's equal parts medical focus and raw desire. He kisses me then, soft and reverent, like he's sealing a promise.
"Go shower," he says against my lips. "Use the antibacterial soap in the cabinet. I need to prepare."
I obey without question, moving through his bathroom area like I'm in a dream. The hot water feels good against my skin, washing away the day, preparing me for whatever comes next. I use the surgical soap he mentioned, the sharp antiseptic scent making this feel more real, more immediate.
When I emerge, wrapped in a towel, the bedroom has been transformed. Angelo has moved his dresser closer to the bed, creating a makeshift surgical station. The instruments are arranged with military-like order, and he's pulled on latex gloves that make his hands look somehow more dangerous.
"Lie down," he says, his voice taking on the clinical tone I've heard when he's treating my other injuries. "On your side, hip exposed."
I drop the towel without ceremony, completely comfortable being naked around him now. His eyes track over my body with familiar hunger, but there's something else there too. Something reverent and possessive and utterly focused.
