Page 14 of Savage Saint
“She could be lying...” Luca starts, but his voice trails off when I step out of the shadows, my body trembling but my voice steady.
“I’m not.” My words are louder than I expect. All eyes land on me, and the weight of their scrutiny presses down on me. I swallow hard and take a step forward. “I’m not lying,” I repeat, my voice a whisper as my eyes start to burn.
“Butterly,” Angelo says gently, taking a step towards me, his tone far gentler than it was a second ago.
“No.” I lift my hand to stop him, my voice trembling but firm. “I didn’t ask for this. Didn’t ask for your help or to be brought here.”
“They’re just being assholes,” Alessa says, her voice cutting through the tension as she steps forward.
“I don’t want to be here.” My voice breaks, and I struggle to hold back tears threatening to spill. “I don’t want some psycho to be after me. I just want to go home,” I whisper, the truth of my words hanging in the air.
“Stay here, Butterfly,” Angelo says, closing the space between us in two long strides. His hand lifts, settling on my chin as his fingers gently tilt my face until my eyes meet his. His gaze holds me in place, unyielding yet steady, like an anchor in a storm. “At least until your memories come back. I’ll keep you safe.”
For a moment, the room falls silent, save for the heavy beat of my heart. His words wrap around me, offering a fragile thread of reassurance. And even though my instincts tell me to pull away, I don’t.
Not yet.
7
BUTTERFLY
One night. That’s all.
One night here with Angelo is all I can agree to before I reassess the situation.
After a long conversation, I find out Dante, Angelo and Luca are brothers. The Santoro brothers, as if that’s supposed to mean anything to me. Alessa promises to come back in the morning with clothes and shoes, and if at any point I want to stay with her and Dante, their house is open. I tell her I don’t have any money, but she just laughs it off, saying not to worry.
But I do worry.
I worry about staying in this empty house with a strange man, no matter how at ease I feel around him. I worry about men being after me for some goddamn reason. I worry about not knowing who I am or where I’m from. And I worry I won’t remember. Because apart from a few fractured memories, my mind is still like a dark void.
When Alessa, Dante and Luca leave, a heavy silence falls over the house. Angelo doesn’t fill it with unnecessary chatter. Instead, he tells me I’m free to do whatever I want while he goes off to change. It is at that moment I remember he’s still wearingthe shirt I bled all over. Although it’s only been an hour, maybe two, it feels like it happened a lifetime ago.
The thought of being confined in this house churns my stomach. My bare feet pad lightly against the cool floor as I walk around.
The house is quiet. Too quiet.
Each step feels amplified in the silence as I move past the sterile furnishings, all clean lines and muted colours. Everything about it screams control. Order.
And I want to mess. It. Up.
I walk to the open plan kitchen—spotless, the counters clear of anything personal. Running my hand lightly along the edge of the countertop, I scan for details. For anything that might tell me what kind of man Angelo is. There’s nothing. Not a single photo, memento, or sign that someone actually lives here.
I catch my reflection in the glass of the cabinets—dishevelled hair, tired eyes, a body that doesn’t feel like my own. The person staring back at me is just as much a mystery as the man who owns this house.
I jump when I hear a faint sound behind me. Turning sharply, I find Angelo leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his dark brown eyes fixed on me.
“You’re hungry,” he says. A statement, not a question.
I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze head-on. “Not really.”
“I’ll make you something.” He nods, ignoring my reply. His posture is relaxed, but there’s an energy around him, controlled and coiled tight like he’s holding back more than I can see.
Angelo doesn’t wait for words of affirmation or for me to protest. Instead, he walks to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, and hands it to me without a word.
“Thanks,” I mutter as he turns around and pulls out ingredients: bread, butter, cheese.
He works in silence, his movements methodical as he slices the bread and heats a pan. The rhythm is almost hypnotic, but I force myself to stay sharp. My fingers tighten around the water bottle as I lean against the counter, observing him.
