Page 40 of Savage Saint
I hesitate, weighing my options. "I don't know," I lie.
He studies me like a puzzle he can't quite solve, his gaze dropping to where my tattoo lies hidden. The lie hangs between us, obvious and fragile. Angelo leans back in his chair. The leather protests softly. "Blackriver Kittens are dancers." His voice is even, but his knuckles betray him, flexing against the table's polished surface.
"Dancers?" There's a chill in the air, making my skin erupt into goosebumps. Or maybe it's my sixth sense, warning me I will not like the answer. "What kind of dancers?"
His expression turns to stone, eyes boring into mine. "Strippers. High-end ones."
"You think…" Acid climbs up my throat. "I was one of them?" The words slip out quietly, like I don't actually want to know.
"No. You weren't." His response is immediate, definitive.
Relief floods my system, but suspicion follows close behind. "How can you be so sure?"
He leans forward, making the table between us feel too small. "Because the ink is fresh, Butterfly. Barely healed." His voice drops, rough like gravel. "And because of the brand. This wasn't your choice. None of it was."
The anger boils in my veins, slow and steady, turning my skin on fire. "The guy you've mentioned before—Nico Nicolosi?" I ask quietly, my voice hard as steel.
His lips curve up, but there's no warmth in the expression. It's a promise of violence. "He's going to regret the day he thought marking you was a good idea."
"You'll make him pay?"
"Yes."
"I want to help."
He doesn't move.
"Angelo, you saw what I did to Antonio. What I did to the bear in the woods. I'm not a delicate butterfly you need to protect. I can fight. I can help."
"Kasia…"
"No." I respond firmly. "I might not remember what was done to me. But I want to see the men responsible bleed. I want to watch them pay for every mark they left on my body."
A corner of his mouth twitches upwards as his eyes turn from dark brown to melted chocolate. "You know what they call me, Butterfly?"
"Savage?" I say, tilting my head to the side.
His smile spreads, lighting up his whole face. It's a little scary and a whole lot exciting.
"Savage," he repeats. "They call me Savage. And do you know what that means?"
My heart pounds against my ribs, but I hold his gaze.
"It means that if you want to see them bleed, if you want to see them suffer—you've come to the right person. They won’t be buried with their names. They won’t be buried with their faces. Just teeth. That’s all they’ll have left. Enough for someone, somewhere, to try and match them to who they used to be. That is how I will send them to hell."
My breath catches in my throat.
"Does that scare you, Butterfly?"
I should say yes.
I should fear him.
I should feel repulsed by the way he promises violence, the way his eyes darken when he talks about making them pay. I should feel disgusted, revolted, horrified.
But I don’t.
Because I want to see it.
