Page 38 of Savage Saint
He moves then, crossing the space between us in two fluid strides. Before I can process what's happening, his arms slide beneath me, lifting me against his chest like I weigh nothing at all.
I should fight it. Should push away, maintain the distance that keeps me safe. But my body betrays me, melting into his warmth as if it's found something it's been searching for.
13
KASIA
Four days.
I trace patterns on the ceiling of Angelo's bedroom, counting the seconds ticking by on the clock mounted on the wall. Four days of silence stretched between Angelo and me like an invisible wall, built brick by brick with unspoken words and avoided glances.
Ten words. That's all we'd exchanged since that night in the forest.
"Coffee?" he'd asked the morning after.
"Thanks," I'd replied, taking the steaming mug.
"Are you in pain?" he'd asked yesterday.
"I'm fine," I'd managed.
The memory of his hands on me, his lips against my skin, the heat of his body pressed against me in the forest. It all haunted me like a fever dream. But we didn't talk about it. Wedon'ttalk about it. We don't acknowledge how the air crackles when we share space.
Instead, we dance around each other in this sprawling mansion, maintaining a careful distance. At meals, we sit atopposite ends of the table. Whenever anyone visits, we stand on different sides of the room.
The worst part? I can't tell if this distance is killing him like it is killing me. His face remains an impassive mask, those molten brown eyes giving away nothing. The only tell is the way his jaw would clench when our eyes accidentally meet, or how his fingers would curl into fists when we pass each other in the hallway.
I roll over in bed, punching my pillow in frustration. The display on the wall clock showing 3:47 AM. Another sleepless night, thoughts of him keeping me awake. My fingers absently trace the burn mark on my hip, a reminder of why I am here in the first place.
A responsibility.
Then again, his actions make no sense. If I'm just his responsibility, why on earth would he look after me like he has these past few days?
My fingers drift from the burn mark as I remember that first night, after the bear. Angelo had carried me to the bathroom like I weighed nothing, his movements precise and controlled as he helped me strip to my underwear. His jaw had tightened, I still remember the exact moment, when he saw for the first time the extent of my injuries.
He'd left me there to shower, but waited outside on the stairs. His steady breathing anchoring me to reality.
Afterwards, he'd guided me to the bed without a word, kneeling before me like I was special to him. But there was nothing romantic about it. His touch had been clinical as he applied vitamin E oil to the branded 'N' on my hip, his fingers impossibly gentle against my skin despite their roughness. The contrast made me shiver. Those same hands that could snap a man's neck, treating me like I might shatter.
He'd left immediately after, his footsteps growing distant as he descended the stairs, their echoes somehow louder than the gunshot in the forest.
But he came back. Every single day since then, three times a day. Morning, noon, and night. Like clockwork, he enters silently, kneels, tends to the burn with that same reverent touch, and leaves without meeting my eyes. A ritual. A duty.
The dedication would almost be sweet if it wasn't so maddening. Each time, I feel the heat of his hands on my skin, see the focus in his eyes as he works, notice how his breath catches slightly when he brushes against unburned skin. But he never speaks, never looks up to meet my eyes, never acknowledges the electricity that crackles between us during those brief moments of contact.
I throw off the covers and pad across the cold hardwood floor to the full-length mirror. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts shadows across my skin as I stand there in my black lace underwear, examining what four days of relative peace have done to my body.
My fingers trace the constellation of bruises along my arms. The violent purples and blacks that once mapped my struggles have slowly faded to sickly yellows and greens, like a watercolour painting left out in the rain. They're healing, but the memory of pain lingers beneath my fingertips.
The brand on my hip catches my attention. That cursed 'N' that brought me here. It doesn't sting anymore when I touch it, just pulls tight against my skin like a permanent reminder. The pain's absence should make it feel less real, more like a bad dream I could wake up from. It doesn't.
I twist slightly, examining the fresh tattoo on my ribcage. It still itches where it's healing, the skin raised and tender. The intricate design stares back at me in the mirror, a mark I didn't choose but now wear.
My reflection shows a body mending, but my mind remains trapped in that forest clearing. The sound of the gunshot still echoes in my ears. I can still feel the weight of the gun, the instinctive squeeze of the trigger. The look in Angelo's eyes when he didn't even flinch, like he knew exactly what I would do.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. "Why haven't you said anything?" I whisper to myself, the words fogging up my reflection.
With a sigh, I pull on a sports bra and compression shorts, then make my way down to Angelo's private gym on the floor below. The familiar scent of leather and sweat welcomes me as I push open the heavy door. My hands find a pair of boxing gloves hanging on the wall, the worn leather soft against my fingers.
