Page 23 of Savage Saint
Then another voice, slightly muffled like it’s coming through a loudspeaker but unmistakably amused. Arrow?
“What are you gonna do with her?”
My fingers curl against the hem of the oversized shirt, knuckles whitening. Something inside me stills, coiling tight.
Angelo exhales through his nose. The sound is sharp and impatient. Like this entire conversation is a waste of his time.
“She’s not staying here. She can’t.”
The words land like a punch. Short. Uncompromising. Not even a hint of hesitation. I feel something deep in my chest go cold. Fuck him.
I wanted to get out of here anyway.
Arrow hums thoughtfully on the other end. “She doesn’t seem dangerous.”
Angelo’s answer is immediate. Cutting. Absolute. “She’s not my problem. The sooner she’s gone, the better.”
The slap of it is instant. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. But for some stupid reason, something in me tightens. Like the space between my ribs is suddenly too small. Like I’m… wrong for standing here, breathing the same air as him.
I’m not surprised. I knew this was temporary. I knew I was here only because I had nowhere else to go. And still, some traitorous, pathetic part of me had let last night feel like something else. Like I was something more than just an inconvenience. Something warm brushes my wrist, and I realise my grip on the fabric is too tight, the edges of the shirt wrinkling beneath my fingers. I release it, forcing my hands to relax. Forcing myself to breathe.
I should walk away. Pretend I never heard anything. Pretend I don’t care. But my body moves before my mind can catch up. I push off the wall, making my feet move forward, each step heavier than the last.
The second Angelo sees me, something shifts in his face. It’s quick, so quick I might have missed it if I wasn’t already looking. A crack in his perfect indifference. Unease? Guilt? Not guilt.
But he knows.
Knows I heard.
Knows there’s no taking it back.
He doesn’t apologise, though. Because apparently, men like Angelo Santoro don’t apologise. They just move on, wiping their hands clean of people like me.
His jaw tightens, the grip around the coffee mug in his hand flexing. The other holds his phone, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches me, waiting.
Waiting for what? For me to storm out? To cry?
Not a fucking chance.
I meet his gaze, chin tilting up just slightly. If he wants me gone, fine. I want to get out of here too. Anywhere is better than here.
“Morning,” I say coolly, stepping further into the kitchen like I don’t feel the weight of his words pressing against my skin.
Arrow’s voice crackles through the phone as my eyes land on the knife block sitting on the counter—six blades, easily accessible.
“Well… shit.”
Yeah. Shit, indeed.
“I’ll call you back,” Angelo snaps into the phone and disconnects, his eyes never wavering from mine. A lump rises in my throat as his eyes soften–dark brown melting into milky chocolate. “Kasia...” he says softly.
I shake my head, opening my mouth to say... something. Anything. But before I do, the silence is interrupted.
“Helloooo.” Alessa bounces into the kitchen, unaware of the tension between us. My mask slips into place a second before Angelo’s does.
“Hi.” I turn just as her arms wrap around me, pulling me into a tight hug. Stiffening, I stop breathing, unsure of how to react.
She chuckles before stepping away and looking around. “It’s okay,” she rumbles. “I grow on people. I swear. You can ask Mel. Or Arrow.”
