Page 33 of Savage Saint
I circle wide, cutting through a patch of dense undergrowth. The branches part silently under my touch, years of practice making my movements fluid, natural. Like I'm part of the forest itself.
A flash of black catches my eye. Not ahead where she wants me to look, but to my right, moving silently as death through the shadows. She's doubled back, using my own hunting grounds against me. Something dark and hungry stirs in my chest. This isn't just blind panic or desperate flight. This is calculated. Professional. The way she splits my attention, uses sound to mislead, creates false patterns...
Who the fuck is she?
Twenty feet behind her now. Close enough to catch her scent on the breeze. I deliberately step on a fallen branch, letting it crack beneath my shoe.
She spins, fast and graceful as a dancer. Her eyes scan the trees, but I'm already gone, melted back into the shadows. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, breath coming in short bursts. Not from exertion. From adrenaline. From knowing she's being hunted.
I move again, quietly, positioning myself at her three o'clock. "You really thought running away was a good idea, Butterfly?"
Her whole body goes rigid. Slowly, she turns to face my voice, and I catch that flash again, that dangerous glint in her eye that makes my blood sing. But there's something else there too. Pride. Satisfaction. Like she proved something to herself by getting this far.
"I—I was just going for a walk," she says, her eyes darting around, looking for escape routes no doubt. But the slight curl of her lips tells a different story. She's enjoying this just as much as I am.
I stalk closer, letting my shoes crunch against the forest floor. Her pulse jumps at her throat, a delicate flutter beneath pale skin. The lie sits heavy between us.
"Just going for a walk?" My voice drops low, dangerous. "In these woods? Miles from anywhere?"
She shifts her weight, subtle but telling. Ready to move, to fight. Those pale blue eyes track my every step as I circle her, predator to prey. But there's something else there too, a gleam of a challenge that makes my blood heat.
"Ten seconds to rethink those lies, Butterfly." I tap my watch, the metal catching sunlight. "Ten..."
Her chin lifts, defiant. No trembling, no pleading. Just steel wrapped in silk.
"Nine..."
A smile curves her lips, sharp as a blade. "I don't run from danger, Angelo." My name rolls off her tongue like honey laced with poison.
"Call me Savage, Butterfly." If my interruption throws her off, she doesn't show it, except for the slight widening of her eyes.
"Like I said,Savage. I don't run from danger. I run because I like seeing overconfident men chase after me."
I freeze mid-step, my smirk faltering. The words hit like a physical blow, unexpected and jarring. The script I'd been following shatters.
What the fuck?
Her eyes dance with something that looks suspiciously like triumph. The prey becomes a predator in one elegant move.
Was she playing me this whole time? Leading me out here on purpose? The thought sends a jolt of... something through my veins. Not anger. Not exactly.
Those blue eyes hold mine, steady and knowing. Like she sees right through my carefully constructed walls to the darkness lurking beneath.
And fuck if that doesn't make me want her even more.
Her muscles bunch, the only warning before she explodes into motion, darting between two massive oaks.
I let her gain ground, counting her steps. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Then I move.
She's fast, her feet barely touching the ground as she weaves through the trees. Each step precise, calculated. No wasted energy. But I've spent years mastering these woods, learning every root and hollow.
A flash of black ahead as she cuts left. Amateur move. I'm already shifting right, anticipating her path before she takes it. Her eyes widen as she realises her mistake, pivoting hard to double back.
But I'm there. Always there. Every escape route blocked, every path cut off.
Then she does something that makes my breath catch. She stops. Plants her feet in the soft earth and turns to face me, chest rising and falling steadily. No panic. No desperate scrambling.
