Page 18 of Savage Saint
Waiting.
She shifts suddenly, a sharp inhale slicing through the silence. Her fingers twitch, then clutch at the sheets, her muscles going rigid. Her body curls inward as if bracing for impact, as if she’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dangerous.
A soft whimper escapes her lips. The sound digging under my skin like a splinter.
I lean forward in the chair, fingers flexing against my knees, an instinct I don’t fucking recognise whispering at me to do something. To fix it. To make it stop.
But I don’t move.
I don’t soothe.
I don’t comfort.
That’s not who I am. Comfort isn't in my vocabulary. Never has been. Not since Massimo caught me crying over my first kill. 'Tears are weakness,' he'd said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. 'And Santoros aren't weak.' The bruises had lasted weeks. The lesson, forever.
And yet, when she lets out another broken sound, something inside me shifts. Something tightens, then snaps. Before I can think better of it, I’m rising from the chair, standing in place unable to look away. She’s muttering now, the words slipping from her lips in frantic, breathless gasps.
“Nie… nie… Prosze…”
Something clicks into place. It’s not just a nightmare, it’s a memory. My hands clench into fists. I tell myself I won’t interfere. That this isn’t my place.
Then she whispers my name.
And I forget every fucking reason why I should stay away.
She sits up, a tear slipping down her cheek as she takes a shaky breath.
My name tumbles from her lips next. Soft, desperate. Not a scream, not a plea, but something worse. An anchor. A fucking lifeline.
And I break.
I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, hesitating for a moment before brushing the damp strands of hair from her forehead. My fingers barely graze her skin, but it’s enough. Her body reacts immediately, flinching first, then melting into the touch.
I don’t do this.
I don’t touch without reason.
But she shifts, her fingers twitching against the sheets, hesitant. Slowly, cautiously, she reaches, not for protection, but for something unspoken. Something neither of us knows how to name. The last time someone reached for me like that, trusted me like that, I'd been forced to paint the walls with their blood. Trust is a death sentence in my world. Massimo made sure I learned that lesson early. I should pull back. I should let her go. Instead, I do the opposite.
I move before I can stop myself, pulling her against me, tucking her head under my chin. My arm wraps around her waist, pulling her to me, and for the first time since I started watching her sleep, the tension in her body begins to unwind.
“Shhh. You’re safe,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble as my arms tighten around her. “No one’s going to hurt you, Butterfly.”
She trembles, her fingers gripping the fabric of my shirt, holding on as if I’m the only thing that can keep her safe. It is that thought that has me stiffening around her. Because I’m no one’s saviour. I’m the nightmare. The monster. And yet here I am, pretending like I could be something I’m not. Whispering comforting words into her hair. Holding her as if I could fool myself into being gentle. I’mnotwhat she needs. I’m not what she seeks.
“Angelo,” she whispers again. The scent of her hair fills my senses, and for a moment, I let myself pretend we’re different people in a different world. That maybe I can be all those things for her.
But then awareness crashes back, a cold shower washing away the warmth of the illusion. As much as I’d like to pretend, I can’t be her solace. I’m the one she should be scared of.
With a jolt, I stand, the action more reflex than choice. She falls away from me, tumbling gracelessly off my lap and back onto the sheets, her bright blue eyes wide and searching, her red hair tangled from all the thrashing. My pulse thrums, aching to take back the moment we shared, to pull her into my arms again, but the self-loathing wins over and I take a step away from her.
“Sorry,” I mutter, unsure what exactly am I apologising for, touching her or letting her go.
She looks up at me, confused and hurt, and the guilt twists in my gut.
“I—” I clear my throat, trying to ignore the unfamiliar feeling crawling up my neck. “Do you want water?”
She blinks, her eyebrows scrunching as she studies me. “Sure,” she says after a pause, her voice barely above a whisper.
