Page 43 of Savage Saint
His first punch connects with a sickening crunch. The attacker staggers, but Angelo doesn't let up. Each strike is precise, calculated, designed to inflict maximum damage. Everymovement flows into the next like a choreographed dance of destruction.
I watch, transfixed, as Angelo systematically takes the man apart. This isn't just fighting. It's art. Terrible, beautiful art. The way he moves, the efficiency of each strike, it's like watching a predator at work.
Blood sprays as Angelo's fist connects with the man's nose. The attacker tries to fight back, but he might as well be swinging at smoke. Angelo weaves and dodges with an almost supernatural grace, his body moving like water around the brute's clumsy attempts at defence.
A particularly vicious blow sends the man crashing to the ground. Angelo follows, raining down punches with mechanical efficiency. His knuckles are split, blood—his or the attacker's, I can't tell—staining his hands. "You. Don't. Fucking. Touch. Her," he chants with every punch, each word punctuated by the sound of flesh meeting flesh.
I should feel horrified. I should look away. But I can't. There's something mesmerising about Angelo like this—raw, unleashed, savage. The controlled man who's been watching over me these past few days is gone, replaced by something primal and dangerous.
The man on the ground has stopped moving, but Angelo doesn't stop. His shoulders heave with each breath, his face spattered with blood. He's lost in the violence, consumed by it. "Never. Ever. Touch. Her. Again," he growls, each word accompanied by another devastating blow.
A chill runs down my spine as I realise this isSavage. This is the man they all fear. And for the first time, I truly understand why. The way he moves, the calculated brutality, the sheer power radiating from him, it's terrifying and awe-inspiring all at once.
Part of me wants to run. But a darker, more primal part feels... safe. Protected. Watching him unleash this violence in mydefence awakens something in me I didn't know existed. Part of me wants to curl up on his lap and press my lips against his neck. Soak in his warmth. Let his violence wrap around me like a shield.
Angelo's fists are a blur of motion, each impact punctuated by a sickening crack. The man beneath him is barely recognisable now, his face a mess of blood and tissue.
"Angelo!" I call out, my tone soft, trying to break through his haze of violence. He doesn't respond, lost in his rage, continuing his brutal assault.
I take a step forward, then another. The air around Angelo feels charged, dangerous. It's like approaching a wild animal. Every instinct is screaming at me to run, but something deeper is pulling me forward.
Another punch lands. The wet, squelching sound makes me flinch. This isn't justice anymore. It's pure vengeance, raw and primal.
"Angelo, stop!" I shout, my voice cutting through the sounds of violence.
His head snaps up, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. His eyes are wild, unfocused, burning with an intensity that both terrifies and captivates me. Blood spatters his face, his knuckles raw and split.
For a heartbeat, I think he might not stop. That he might turn that savage energy on me. My body tenses, ready to run, muscles coiled tight with anticipation.
But then I see it, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. His fingers twitch, hovering over the broken man. He's fighting for control, I realise. Fighting against the monster inside him, trying to cage it back behind walls of restraint.
Without thinking, I close the distance between us. I reach out, my hand trembling, and touch his arm. His skin is hot, slick with sweat and blood, muscles rigid under my fingers.
"It's over," I say softly, holding his gaze. "You can stop now. I'm safe."
For a minute, neither of us moves. We're frozen in this moment of violence and tenderness. I can feel his rapid pulse under my fingertips, matching the frantic beat of my own heart.
Then, slowly, his hands drop to his sides. He exhales, a long, shuddering breath that seems to deflate him, the tension bleeding out of his frame.
"Kasia," he murmurs, my name a rough whisper on his bloodied lips. The sound sends a shiver down my spine, something electric dancing across my skin.
I help him to his feet, acutely aware of how his body sways towards mine. For a brief moment, he leans into me, his forehead resting against mine. I can smell the copper tang of blood, feel the heat radiating off him.
When he pulls back, his eyes are clear again. The savage is gone, locked away behind walls of control. But now I know it's there, waiting.
My pulse is still racing, but not entirely from fear anymore.
"Did he hurt you?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly.
I shake my head, unable to find words. Because how do I tell him that the most frightening thing isn't what he did to that man, but how safe I felt watching him do it?
"Good," he growls, glancing at the broken figure on the ground. "He'll never lay his hands on you or anyone else ever again."
Angelo's eyes move over me with an almost manic intensity, his gaze tracking every inch of exposed skin. His hands hover near my arms, not quite touching, like he's afraid of what his blood-stained fingers might do. The frantic energy radiating from him makes my breath catch.
"I'm fine," I assure him, but he continues his visual inspection, jaw clenched tight enough I can see the muscle jumping.
He tries to wipe his hands on his pants, smearing crimson across the expensive fabric. The blood has already begun to dry, staining the creases of his knuckles, marking the spaces between his fingers. A futile attempt to erase the evidence of what he just did. What he did for me.
