Page 32 of Savage Saint
Just me and my dangerous little Butterfly now.
Perfect.
I walk to the minibar beside the sofa, pouring three fingers of whiskey. The amber liquid catches the light, the crystal tumblercool against my palm as I lean against the counter, staring at nothing in particular.
My pulse remains steady, controlled, but my mind keeps replaying her movements. The fluid grace of her attack. The way she anticipated Antonio's reactions before he made them. The perfect positioning of her hands around his throat.
I take a slow sip, letting the burn coat my tongue before I swallow. Christ, in that moment, she was beautiful. Not the fragile creature who'd been sleeping in my bed, but something else entirely. A predator wearing prey's clothing.
She was dangerous to me before. She's downright lethal now.
The memory of her fingers uncurling from Antonio's throat sends a shiver down my spine. Such precise control. Such... artistry. Like a dancer performing steps she'd practiced thousands of times.
I close my eyes, but all I see is the flash of satisfaction in her gaze before she masked it. That split second where her true nature peeked through. My fingers tighten around the glass.
I want to see it again. Want to watch her shed that vulnerable facade and show me what else she can do. Want to push her until all her carefully constructed walls come crashing down.
The whiskey burns as I drain the glass, but it does nothing to dull this new hunger growing inside me. This need to unravel her mysteries, to peel back her layers until I find the weapon beneath.
My little Butterfly isn't just beautiful when she fights.
She's fucking magnificent.
Movement catches my eye, a shadow against shadows. Kasia, all sleek in black leggings and an oversized sweater, slipping through the side door like a ghost.
Lips curling into a smile, I set my whiskey down. The crystal clinks against marble, loud in the sudden stillness of the house.
She thinks she's being clever. Thinks I haven't noticed how she's been watching, learning the layout, tracking the exits. Testing the waters while pretending to be lost and confused.
My pulse quickens, but not from anger. No—this is something darker. Sweeter.
Anticipation coils in my gut as I imagine her padding across the grounds, bare feet silent on damp grass. She'll be running soon, those powerful legs carrying her through the darkness. But there's nowhere to go. Nothing but miles of private land stretching in every direction.
Just the way I like it.
I don't move from my spot against the counter. Don't call out or give chase. Not yet. Let her taste that first rush of freedom, that surge of triumph when she thinks she's outsmarted me.
Through the window, I catch a glimpse of her darting between the trees at the edge of the property. Swift. Silent. Beautiful.
My smirk deepens as I roll my shoulders, muscles already humming with anticipation of what's to come.
Run, little Butterfly. Show me what else you can do.
The day stretches before us, full of possibilities. And I'm in no hurry to end this game.
I slide into the shadows of the trees, following her trail with unhurried steps. The midday sun filters through the canopy, casting dappled light across the forest floor. Perfect hunting conditions.
My boots sink into soft earth as I track her footprints. She's fast, but these woods belong to me. I know every hollow, every root, every hiding spot. The land stretches for miles in every direction. My own private hunting ground.
She veers left, towards the creek. Smart girl, trying to mask her trail in the water. But I can see her hesitation in eachfootprint, the way she tests the ground before committing her weight. These woods are foreign to her, and it shows.
Or so I thought.
The trail goes cold at the creek's edge. Too cold. My eyes narrow as I scan the area. The footprints leading to the water are too obvious, too careless for someone who moved like a ghost through my house. I've been played.
A twig snaps behind me, deliberate, meant to draw my attention. When I spin, there's nothing there. But the hair on the back of my neck rises. She's close, watching me hunt the wrong prey.
Clever, my little Butterfly knows how to lay a false trail.
