Page 45 of Savage Saint
"I know. Humour me." I throw his earlier words back at him.
"I've had worse."
"I believe you," I reply, kneeling in front of him. "Doesn't mean you have to deal with it alone."
The bathroom falls quiet except for the soft sound of water dripping from the cloth as I wring it out. I take care of his right hand first. The knuckles are split, the skin swollen. Fighting hands. Killing hands. Hands that carried me like I weighed nothing.
"Is this what you do?" I ask, gently wiping away the blood that isn't his. "Clean up other people's messes?"
He doesn't answer immediately. I look up to find him watching me in the mirror across from us, his expression guarded but intense.
"Only the ones worth keeping clean," he finally says, his voice low and rough.
I swallow hard at the implication, focusing on the task at hand. With each swipe of the cloth, more blood washes away, revealing the man beneath the violence. I find a small gash on his forearm, another near his collarbone. Nothing life-threatening, but evidence of the fight that should have been mine.
When I press the cloth against a particularly deep cut on his hand, Angelo winces slightly, a crack in his perfect control. The involuntary reaction somehow makes him more human than anything else I've seen.
"Sorry," I murmur, easing the pressure.
"Don't be," he responds, a shaky exhale escaping him. "Just... not used to this."
I look up. "Someone taking care of you?"
His eyes darken. "Someone seeing the aftermath."
I understand then—the blood, the violence, the clean-up—it's always been his private ritual. I'm witnessing something no one else gets to see: Angelo Santoro putting himself back together.
I continue cleaning methodically, working my way up his arms to his face, where a thin cut runs along his cheekbone. His eyes never leave mine, watching with an intensity that should make me uncomfortable but somehow doesn't.
With the last traces of blood gone, I step back, giving him space. The air feels charged, like we've crossed some invisible line and can't find our way back, not that I would want to.
Exhaustion hits me suddenly, the adrenaline crash making my limbs feel like they're filled with cement. Despite the sunlight still streaming through the windows, my body seems to have decided it's bedtime. The events of the day—the attack, the blood, the revelations—have drained something essential from both of us.
I step away from Angelo, tossing the bloodied cloth into the sink. "I need to lie down," I admit, my voice quiet.
His eyes meet mine in the mirror, fatigue etched into the lines around them. For a man who probably sleeps three hours a night by choice, he looks utterly spent. The kind of bone-deep weariness that makes even breathing feel like work.
I don't want to be alone with my thoughts. And judging by the way Angelo's gaze follows me as I move around the room, he doesn't either.
We don't discuss it. Don't need to. He walks behind me, his steps barely audible as I make my way to the bed.Hisbed. The mattress calls to me like a siren song, promising temporary oblivion from the chaos we've just survived.
Angelo moves to the window, pressing a button that sends electric blinds sliding down, shutting out the midday sun andplunging the room into soft darkness. My jaw drops. How have I not discovered this in the week I've been staying here?
"You should rest, Butterfly," he says, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, watching as he hovers at the threshold. There's an uncertainty to him now, a hesitation I've never seen before. Angelo Santoro, deliberating. His hand rests on the doorframe like he's anchoring himself, preparing to leave even as everything in his posture suggests he wants to stay.
"Stay." The word slips out before I can overthink it. Simple. Direct. Everything we're not.
Something in his expression shifts, tension bleeding from his shoulders even as his jaw tightens with resolve. He doesn't respond, but his hand drops from the doorframe. For a moment, I'm scared he'll turn around and walk down the stairs without giving me a second glance.
But once again, he surprises me. Despite all this distance we've been putting between us, he walks towards the bed. Towards me. With his gaze avoiding mine, he unbuckles his watch and sets it on the nightstand. The three-foot space he maintains as he moves around the bed to the far side would be comical if it weren't so telling. The man who carried me through the house like precious cargo now can't bring himself within three feet of me.
He shakes his head slightly, as if clearing away whatever thoughts are plaguing him. Then, still fully clothed, he slides onto the bed beside me. The mattress dips under his weight, and I feel myself gravitating toward the centre.
I lie down, turning away from him, giving him the choice to close the final gap between us or preserve that careful distance. For several heartbeats, there's nothing but the sound of our breathing in the darkened room.
Then his arm slides around my waist, tentative at first, then with more certainty as I relax into his touch. He pulls me against his chest, solid and warm at my back. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat gradually slows, lulling us both down into sleep.
