Page 20 of Savage Saint
A threat. Not to my life, but to the carefully constructed walls I’ve built.
I know what I have to do. Tomorrow, I’ll push her away. I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t belong here.
But right now…
I tighten my grip around her waist, inhaling the faint scent of my soap on her skin and fabric softener from my clothes on her body.
Right now, I let myself pretend.
She stirs slightly, pressing closer. I tell myself it means nothing. But deep down, I know I’m already losing the fight.
Her body softens, her breathing evens out, and before I can process what’s happening, before I can fight the pull of exhaustion, my eyelids grow heavy.
For the first time in years, sleep takes me without a fight.
9
KASIA
Warmth.
It clings to me, thick and consuming, wrapping itself around every inch of my body like a second skin. It’s heavy, dense, almost suffocating, but I don’t fight it. A deep exhaustion lingers in my bones, an ache that isn’t just physical but something deeper, something I can’t quite name. For a moment, I allow myself to exist in this space. This hazy, in-between place where reality hasn’t yet pierced the dream, where my body is still caught in the comfort of half-consciousness.
Then I shift, just slightly, and the awareness slams into me like a freight train. Something solid is behind me. Heat. Strength. The unmistakable press of muscle against my back.
My breath catches, but I don’t move. Not yet.
Slowly, I inhale, the scent filling my lungs before I can stop it. Sandalwood. Citrus. Something darker, sharper. Something that belongs to only one man.
Angelo.
My eyes flutter open, but I don’t turn over. I don’t need to. I already know. The memories creep in, unravelling in my mind like smoke.
The nightmare. The panic. The moment I called his name into the darkness.
And the way he came for me.
I can still feel it—his arms around me, strong and steady. The way his voice rumbled through his chest, telling me I was safe. Like he meant it. Like if he held me tight enough, he could make it true.
And he’s still here.
His arm draped over my waist, heavy and comforting. Not accidental. Not careless. Like he meant to stay.
A shiver runs through me, but I don’t pull away even though I know I should. I should roll out of his grasp, and put as much distance between us as possible, remind myself I don’t know who he is. Don’t know who I am.
But for one second—just one—I let myself sink into it. The illusion. The lie. That I am safe. That I am protected. Thathewould protect me.
The thought is dangerous. It slithers through my veins, thick and intoxicating, numbing the rational part of my brain that knows better. Because men like him, men with sharp eyes and sharper edges, men who move through the world like they own it, like it bends to their will, they don’t get to be soft.
And yet, here he is.
Holding me.
The warmth disappears before I can hold on to it.
It starts with a shift. A slow inhale, deeper than before. The subtle tightening of the arm around my waist, fingers flexing for just a second before they go still. His breath changes, no longer even, no longer lost in sleep.
With a sharp inhale, he’s awake.
