Page 47 of Savage Saint
"And what does a weapon do?"
"It serves its purpose."
"And what is your purpose?"
"Whatever you command."
Pride swells in my chest when he nods, even as disgust curdles in my stomach. I hate that I crave his approval, despise how my self-loathing tangles with reverence. My voice becomesless childlike and more grown up, but the purpose remains the same.
Sometimes, as he speaks, his face shifts, becoming someone else before snapping back to Jerzy. A glitch in my memory, perhaps, or something more.
The lesson hammers against my instincts: connection is weakness, emotion is failure, obedience is survival. These are the contradictions I'm still fighting, the conditioning that sits like poison in my veins.
I gasp, reality crashing back into me like a freight train. The dark bedroom materialises around me, replacing cold concrete with warm sheets. My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I'm surprised it doesn't wake Angelo up.
Copper floods my mouth. Fuck, I've bitten my lip hard enough to draw blood. I swipe my tongue over the small wound, trying to ground myself in this physical pain rather than the phantom aches of memory.
Angelo's arms are wrapped around me, his body curled protectively against mine. What felt like safety now feels like a trap, a cage I need to escape. I shift slightly, testing his grip.
"Breathe," I command myself silently. "Just breathe."
One, two, three, four on the inhale. Hold. One, two, three, four, five, six on the exhale. The technique keeps me from spiralling, even as my mind reels.
Jerzy. My father. The man whose approval I'd killed for—perhaps literally. Shame burns hot in my chest, twisting with a fear so primal it makes me nauseous. How fucked up am I that some damaged part of me still yearns for the cold satisfaction in those icy eyes when I performed well?
Bile rises in my throat at what my hands might have done under his instruction. Were those training dummies in my memories? Or something worse? Something I've buried beneath layers of survival instinct and denial?
My fingernails dig into my palms, the crescents of pain another anchor to the present. My throat constricts, trapping a scream I can't afford to release.
I feel a shift in Angelo's breathing before I open my eyes. When I do, I find him watching me, his gaze unnervingly focused for someone who just woke. Those warm chocolate eyes—so different from Jerzy's frosty ones—study me with the same predatory assessment I recognise from my memories. Different eyes, same calculation.
"Bad dream?" His voice is rough with sleep, but his mind is clearly sharp.
I swallow hard, tasting blood again. "Just fragments," I manage, the lie bitter on my tongue.
His lips twitch slightly. "Fragments can cut deeper than the whole."
Before I can respond, his fingers brush against my cheek, catching a tear I didn't realise had fallen. The touch is gentle, almost tender, but I don't miss how his eyes track my involuntary flinch, how they narrow slightly at the way my breathing hitches.
He doesn't press me for details. Doesn't need to. His silence is its own form of interrogation, patient, relentless observation that pulls information from me without a single question.
We lie there, a show of false intimacy, as he catalogues every micro expression that crosses my face, storing away my vulnerabilities for future reference.
I watch Angelo's chest rise and fall steadily as he drifts back to sleep, his arms still a protective cage around me. The warmth of his body should be comforting, but all I can think about is cold concrete and clinical eyes. Every time I close my eyes, fragments of memory flash behind my eyelids like a broken reel.
Maybe amnesia wasn't such a curse after all. This glass bubble I've built with Angelo, as dangerous as it might be, feelssafer than my past. At least here, in his arms, I know who I am. Or who I'm pretending to be.
When morning finally creeps in through the windows, I slip from Angelo's embrace and go through my routine on autopilot. Shower. Dress. Brush teeth. Each action mechanical, distant, like I'm watching someone else perform them.
The kitchen is quiet except for the soft sounds of Angelo preparing coffee. His movements are precise, controlled. A morning ritual performed with military precision. A rich coffee aroma fills the air, mingling with the scent of butter sizzling in a pan. Morning light streams through the windows, turning dust motes into floating specks of gold.
I feel his eyes on me, though he appears focused on his task. It's like a physical touch, that gaze, assessing and collecting data. When he hands me my coffee, our fingers brush. The contact feels deliberate, sending an electric current up my arm that has nothing to do with the heat of the mug.
"Sleep well?" His tone is casual, but his eyes are intense, searching.
Shame and fear war in my chest. Shame for hiding, fear of judgment. "Fine," I lie, the word hollow even to my own ears.
His mouth twitches slightly, acknowledging the game we're playing. He takes a slow sip of his coffee before speaking again. "You talk in your sleep," he mentions casually. "Polish sounds beautiful, even in nightmares."
