Page 22 of Savage Saint
His expression stays blank. But I see it. The flicker of something in his eyes. Frustration. Guilt. Something darker, something deeper.
“Thank you,” I finally say, not wanting to come across as ungrateful despite this apathy of his, which is really starting to annoy me.
Angelo’s jaw locks, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, but still, he doesn’t say anything.
Tucking the bottle under my arm, I huff and walk past him, heading toward the bathroom. I don’t spare him a second glance. If he wants distance, he can have it.
Because I don’t need him. I can find my way out of whatever mess I am in all by myself.
The hot water scalds my skin, but I don’t adjust the temperature. I welcome the burn, letting it chase away the tension still wrapped around my muscles.
As I stand under the spray, I let myself breathe. Let the weight of last night dissolve down the drain. Let the truth sink in.I need to get out of here.
Fast.
I don’t belong in this house, in his bed, in whatever twisted version of reality this is.
The only problem? I have no idea where to go.
Yet.
But that’ll change. It has to. My memories are still gone, but they’re slowly coming back, piece by piece. It won’t be long before I know more than just my name. And then I can get the hell out of here.
I shut off the water and step out, grabbing a towel and drying myself off. My gaze lands on the brown bottle on the edge of the sink. Reluctantly, I uncap it and pour a few drops onto my fingers. The brand is pink, tender, but there’s new skin over the wound. It hurts like a motherfucker when I apply the oil, but I do it anyway.
The air in the bedroom is still thick with his presence, the faint scent of citrus and sandalwood clinging to the sheets. There’s a tube of antibiotic ointment on the pillow with a note to put it over my tattoo. I stare at it for a second too long, irritation sparking under my skin.
For someone so determined to keep me at arm’s length, he sure as hell is dedicated to taking care of me.
A contradiction.
Cold and distant one second, thoughtful and careful the next.
I shove the thought away as I smooth the cream over the seeping tattoo. It stings, but I barely flinch. It’s far from the pain I remember enduring in my dreams.
With a huff, I move toward his wardrobe. Most of his clothes are neatly pressed suits. Dark and crisp, tailored for a man who doesn’t believe in casual. I don’t have the luxury of being picky.
I grab a white t-shirt and a pair of drawstring sweatpants, rolling the waistband until they sit high enough to stay up. They hang loose, swallowing me whole, but I don’t care. I don’t need to look good.
I just need to be ready. Because no matter what it takes, I’m leaving.
Angelo thinks he can keep me here, tucked away in his cage made of glass. Like I’m some problem that needs locking awayuntil it can be solved. But I’m not a problem. I’m a person. And people don’t just belong to someone because they were rescued.
Rescued.
The word tastes bitter in my mouth as I slip out of the bedroom, bare feet silent against the hardwood floor. I don’t know where I’m going, only that I need to keep moving.
Need to think.
Need to find a way to disappear before I let myself believe, even for a second, that I’m safe here. But as I walk down the last few steps and turn towards the kitchen, a low, clipped voice stops me in my tracks.
Angelo.
Pressing myself against the wall, I listen to the sound of his voice curling around the space like smoke. Not raised, not angry, just… final.
“—doesn’t matter, Arrow. This isn’t a charity case.”
A pause.
