Page 140 of Savage Saint
The bed dips as I settle onto my side, and Angelo adjusts a lamp to cast a bright light over my hip. I feel exposed, vulnerable, but not afraid. Never afraid with him.
"This is going to hurt," he warns, his gloved fingers ghost over my skin. "I could use a local anaesthetic, but..." His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. "I want you to feel it. To choose the pain. To know you're reclaiming this mark yourself."
"I can handle it." And I can. I've handled worse. Much worse.
He nods, reaching for a bottle of antiseptic. "Tell me if you need me to stop."
The first touch of antiseptic is cold, making me hiss softly. Angelo murmurs an apology, his free hand settling on my thigh in comfort. He's thorough in his cleaning, painting my entire hip with the sharp-smelling liquid. The chemical scent mingles with the metallic tang of anxiety in my mouth.
"Ready?" he asks, scalpel poised above my skin. The blade catches the light, gleaming silver and deadly sharp.
I nod, then remember he can't see my face from this angle. "I'm ready."
The first cut is swift and sure, extending the vertical line of the 'N' upward and outward. The sound is soft but distinct—a whisper of steel parting flesh, followed immediately by the wet warmth of blood welling up. The pain is keen and clean, different from the searing heat of the original brand. This is chosen pain, deliberate pain.
"Fuck," I breathe, my fingers gripping the sheets. The sensation is more intense than I expected—not just the sting of the cut, but the awareness of my skin opening, of Angelo's blade transforming me.
"Doing so well," he murmurs, his voice soft with concentration. The scalpel moves again, creating the right curve of the infinity symbol by extending and curving the diagonal slash. I can feel the blade's path, the deliberate pressure as it follows the line he's envisioned. "So fucking brave."
Blood trickles down my hip, warm and thick, but Angelo's already there with gauze, dabbing it away gently. The cotton comes away crimson, and there's something primitive about seeing my blood on the white fabric, about knowing Angelo is seeing it too.
"One more cut," he says, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "This connects the loops at the bottom."
The final cut is the most intense, joining the two curves at their base to complete the transformation. The scalpel slides through my flesh with that same soft whisper, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan. Not from pain, from something deeper, more primitive. The knowledge that Angelo is literally rewriting my body, claiming me in the most intimate way possible.
When he sets down the scalpel, I can smell the metallic sweetness of blood mixing with the antiseptic, creating a cocktail that's somehow intoxicating rather than sterile. The infinity symbol burns on my hip, but it's a good burn—a transformative burn.
"There." Angelo's voice is rough with emotion. "Look."
He helps me sit up, positioning a mirror so I can see his work. The infinity symbol is perfect, the lines clean and deliberate. Nico's 'N' is still visible, but now it's part of something larger. The vertical line forming the left curve, the diagonal slash extending into the right loop, the harsh angles have beensoftened into flowing curves that speak of eternity rather than ownership.
"It's perfect," I whisper, tears streaming down my face. "Angelo, it's perfect."
He pulls off his gloves, his hands shaking slightly as he reaches for me. "Now it's ours," he says fiercely. "This mark belongs to us now."
I turn in his arms, careful not to disturb the fresh cuts, and kiss him hard. He tastes like mint and determination, like promises kept and futures planned.
"Your turn," I say against his lips, and for the first time in my life, I feel truly powerful. Not the manufactured power that comes from training and weapons, but something deeper. The power to choose. The power to mark someone who has marked me. The power to make Angelo bleed willingly rather than from violence.
Something primal flashes in his eyes. "You sure?"
Instead of answering, I reach for fresh gloves, pulling them on with steady hands. The latex snaps against my wrists, a sound that makes Angelo's pupils dilate further. For a moment, I'm the one in control, the one with the blade, the one who will decide how deep to cut.
"Your hip," I say, my voice taking on the same clinical tone he used. "Right side, to mirror mine."
Angelo doesn't hesitate. He strips off his shirt and lies on his side, mirroring my earlier position. His body is a work of art, all lean muscle and tattoos and scars that tell stories I'm only beginning to learn. But I'm about to add my own story to his skin.
I clean his hip with the same thoroughness he showed me, marvelling at the trust he's placing in my hands. This man who controls everything, who trusts no one, is offering himself tome completely. The antiseptic makes his skin glisten under the lamplight, and I can see his muscles tense in anticipation.
"This might hurt," I warn, echoing his earlier words. The scalpel feels different in my hand than I expected. Heavier, more significant. This isn't just a blade, it's an instrument of transformation.
"I can handle it," he says, and there's something like amusement in his voice, even as his breathing quickens.
The first cut is harder than I thought it would be, not technically, but emotionally. Making Angelo bleed, even for love, even willingly, goes against every protective instinct I have. But as the blade parts his skin with that same soft whisper, as blood wells up crimson and warm, I feel something fierce and primitive surge through me.
This is my mark on him. My choice. My power.
"Christ," Angelo breathes, his voice strained but controlled. I can see his knuckles white where they grip the sheets, but he doesn't move, doesn't protest. He trusts me completely.
