Page 46 of Savage Saint
My eyelids grow heavier with each breath. The last thing I register before surrendering to exhaustion is the deepening of Angelo's breathing behind me, his body finally yielding to what it needs most.
I stir slowly, not sure how long we've been asleep. The room is dark thanks to the electronic blinds, making it impossible to tell if it's still day or if night has fallen. I stay perfectly still, savouring this moment of peace. The first real tranquillity I've felt since waking up in that sterile hospital room.
Angelo's scent envelopes me completely, rich sandalwood mixed with something uniquely him, something I couldn't describe if I tried, even though it has become so familiar over the past week. His warm breath fans steadily against my neck, and the solid weight of his arm draped over my waist anchors me to this moment, to him. The steady rise and fall of his chest against me is hypnotic, almost meditative.
I must have turned in my sleep at some point because now I'm facing him, close enough to study his sleeping features. It's strange seeing him like this, all the hard lines of his face softened by sleep, his usual mask of control stripped away. The perpetual furrow between his brows has smoothed out, and his lips are slightly parted, free from their usual stern set.
He looks almost innocent like this, even though I know that's far from the truth. The hands that held me so gently are the same ones that dealt death mere hours ago. But right now, in this suspended moment between sleep and waking, he's just a man.
Smiling, I shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position without disturbing Angelo. The mattress moulds perfectly to my body, soft yet supportive in all the right places.Like everything else in this house, it probably costs more than I've ever made in my life. Not that I can remember if I even had a job before I found myself in this house.
His arm tightens around my waist in response to my movement. It's an unconscious gesture, purely instinctive—the way his fingers flex against my hip, pulling me closer. For a moment, I let myself sink into the warmth of his embrace, into this false sense of security.
Then it hits me.
A sharp, stabbing pressure builds behind my temples, spreading like poison through my skull. The room begins to tilt sideways, the shadows stretching and warping at impossible angles. My stomach lurches as vertigo takes hold, making the world spin faster and faster.
The steady sound of Angelo's breathing becomes distant, distorted, like I'm hearing it through layers of water. Even my own heartbeat sounds wrong. Too loud, too hollow, echoing strangely in my ears.
My skin grows cold and clammy, goosebumps rising along my arms. His grip on my waist feels like a steel trap closing in, triggering something dark and terrible lurking in the corners of my mind.
The edges of my vision blur, reality bleeding into memory as everything starts to fade. I try to focus on Angelo's face, on the peaceful expression he wears in sleep, but it's too late.
16
KASIA
"Wolniej. Precyzja jest wszystkim."Slower. Precision is everything.
The voice slides through my memory like a blade between ribs. Not cruel, not kind, just expectant. His face isn't blurry anymore, though I can't focus on details. But I know him. I know every contour of that face. Someone I'd tear myself apart to please.
"You are nothing without purpose, Kasia." His accent heavy as he crouches before me, his cologne mingling with the metallic scent of blood. "The weapon has no desires, no needs beyond its function."
I nod, understanding and not understanding all at once. How can a child comprehend being nothing?
"Again, malenka. Again."
I taste copper on my tongue where I've bitten the inside of my cheek. My small fingers are sticky, wet with something I know is blood, but can't remember whose. How old am I, seven years old? Eight? The cold concrete floor bites into my knees as I arrange limbs with precision, though whose limbs I can'trecall. A training dummy? A person? The memory fractures, images flashing chaotically.
I remember reaching for him once, arms lifted for an embrace after I'd done well. His reaction burns brighter than any other memory.
"Affection is weakness, malenka." He steps back, leaving my arms empty. "I am not raising you to be weak."
His ice-blue eyes—my eyes—watch with clinical detachment as I lower my hands. When his heavy palm finally lands on my shoulder, the approval I've earned leaves me colder than the floor beneath my knees. Still, some broken part of me leans into his touch, starved for acknowledgement.
"Tata," I hear myself say. The word feels hollow in my mouth, rehearsed rather than natural.
The slap comes fast. A crack of lightning across my cheek that sends me sprawling onto the cold floor.
"Weak. So fucking weak," he spits, looming over me like a storm cloud.
I blink back tears, knowing they'll only make it worse. "I'm sorry, Jerzy," I whisper, the name foreign on my childish tongue. I can't be more than seven.
After each session, he makes me recite my purpose. It's a ritual more sacred to him than any prayer.
"What are you?" His voice carries no warmth, only expectation.
"A weapon," I respond mechanically.
