Page 44 of Savage Saint
His movements are sharp, controlled as he pulls out his phone. The screen lights up, smeared with red fingerprints as he dials.
"Dante. Cleanup. Now." His voice is pure gravel, each word precise. But I hear what lies beneath. The storm still raging, barely contained behind his careful control.
I can't help but study his face while he waits for his brother's response. The rigid set of his jaw, the darkness still swirling in those usually warm brown eyes. He's both the man who's been caring for me these past days and someone entirely different. Someone I should fear, but can't bring myself to.
"Let's go home," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
Home. The word feels strange on my tongue, yet somehow right. The glass house, Angelo's fortress, that has become my sanctuary. Or is it my cage? The thought flits through my mind, unwanted but persistent in the vacuum of my missing memories.
Angelo's bloodied hand lifts toward my face, hovering just shy of touching. He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. Without thinking, I lean forward, pressing my cheek against his bruised knuckles.
A shudder runs through his entire body. "Home," he echoes softly. Then, moving faster than I can process, he sweeps me into his arms.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, surprising both of us with its lightness. "Angelo! You don't have to carry me every time there's a threat."
"Humour me, Butterfly," he murmurs, his breath warm against my hair. The pet name sends an electric current down my spine.
I let myself relax against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat against my cheek. Something fundamental has shifted between us, a change as dramatic as an earthquake. I remember his savage fury, his words punctuated by violence:You. Don't. Touch. Her.
My own heart skips a beat at the memory.
"Okay," I whisper.
15
KASIA
Angelo doesn't put me down when we walk through the front door. His grip on me tight but surprisingly gentle at the same time as he walks across the ground floor. The house is quiet, the glass walls insulating us from the sounds of the wilderness outside. I let my head rest on Angelo's shoulder, watching the sun peek from behind the clouds as the scent of his cologne mixed with blood invades every cell of my body.
I want to move away. Get as far from the smell of blood as possible. Put space between Angelo and I. But on the other hand I want him to keep holding me, like I'm his lifeline. Like he's one second away from losing it and I'm the only thing that's keeping him grounded. Because deep down I know that's why he hasn't put me down yet.
"Angelo."
He stiffens. His nose pressed against my hair as he inhales deeply, readying himself for my next words. I can't break whatever this is between us. Can't let him retreat behind his mask when I finally got a glimpse of his vulnerability. Consciously, I relax against him, muscle by muscle. It's a weirdfeeling, giving in and letting someone in. Letting Angelo in. Trusting him.
"Take me upstairs," I say, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. It's not a question. I won't let it be.
Angelo's dark eyes find mine, searching. Something shifts in his expression, a flash of understanding that makes my breath catch. He sees what this is, my choice. Trust freely given.
The air conditioning hits my bare arms as we move, making me more aware of the heat radiating from Angelo's body.
I watch the muscles in his jaw work as he carries me up the stairs, the tension visible beneath his skin. His whole body thrums with contained rage, but his arms remain steady around me, careful not to jostle or squeeze too tight. The gentleness in such powerful hands makes something twist in my chest.
When we reach the landing, I make my decision. "The bathroom," I tell him. "I need to clean your wounds."
His eyebrow lifts slightly, the first crack in his rigid expression since we entered the house, but he turns toward the bathroom without argument.
The room feels impossibly bright. Angelo hesitates at the doorway, then reluctantly sets me down on the edge of the marble counter. His movements are stiff, controlled, like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will.
"You should sit," I say, nodding toward the closed toilet lid. When he doesn't move, I add, "Please."
That single word seems to penetrate whatever fog he's in. He lowers himself down, his bloody hands resting on his knees. The crimson is already drying, turning rust-brown against his skin. Some of it isn't his. Most of itisn't his.
I grab a washcloth from the rack and run it under warm water. When I turn back, Angelo has begun mechanically wiping at his own hands with toilet tissue, his movements efficient but unfocused.
"Let me," I say, taking the tissue from his bloodied hands. For a moment, his grip tightens, resisting, before he releases it.
His eyes meet mine, dark and unreadable. "I don't need help."
