Page 56 of Savage Saint
The door behind me slams open.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
I don't need to turn around to know it's Angelo. His voice is tight with anger, controlled, but just barely. I take another long swig from the bottle, which I realise is now half empty.
"Having a drink," I say, still not turning around. "Care to join me?"
His footsteps are heavy as he approaches, nothing like the silent predator I know he can be. He's making noise on purpose, making sure I know he's coming.
"That's a sixty-year-old Macallan," he says, standing over me now, his shadow falling across the water. "It's worth more than most people make in a month."
I finally look up at him, taking my time to let my eyes trail from his polished shoes up his tailored suit to his face. His jaw is clenched, eyes dark with anger. He looks like he's just come from a business meeting or a hit. With Angelo, it could be either.
"Good thing I'm not most people, then." I raise the bottle in a mock toast and take another sip, maintaining eye contact the whole time.
"Give me the bottle, Kasia." His voice drops dangerously low.
"No." The defiance feels good on my tongue, almost as good as the scotch.
"Now." He steps closer.
I stand up, water dripping from my feet onto the stone deck. "Make me."
We stand so close I can smell his cologne, something expensive and dark. His eyes narrow as they take in my thin cami, my bare legs, the bottle clutched in my hand.
"You're drunk," he says, like it's an accusation.
"Not drunk enough." I take another sip, and some of it spills, running down my arm in a thin rivulet. Without breaking eye contact, I slowly lift my arm and lick the scotch off my skin, watching as his pupils dilate, swallowing the brown of his eyes.
His breath catches, just slightly. Anyone else might have missed it.
I don't.
"You shouldn't waste good scotch," he says, his voice rougher now.
"Oh? Is that what I'm doing?" I smile, taking a step backwards. Then another. "Wasting it?"
Before he can respond, I turn and leap into the pool, bottle still in hand, hitting the water with a splash spraying it upward. The warm water envelops me, and I come up for air laughing. Truly laughing, for what feels like the first time in forever.
"You're fucking insane," Angelo scoffs, but there's something else in his voice now besides anger.
I push wet hair from my face, treading water. "Maybe. But I'm having more fun than you are right now."
He stands at the edge of the pool, looking down at me like he can't decide whether to drag me out or walk away. I raise the bottle, which miraculously survived the jump, and take another sip.
"You're ruining your suit just standing there," I tell him.
His eyes haven't left mine. "You think I give a shit about the suit?"
"I think you give a shit about everything. Control. Order. The proper way to drink sixty-year-old scotch." I swim to the edge of the pool, close enough to touch him if I wanted to. "When was the last time you did something just because it felt good?"
For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, in one fluid motion, he steps right into the pool—shoes, suit, everything.
The sight is so unexpected I actually gasp. Angelo Santoro, the man known as Savage, standing chest-deep in water in his thousand-dollar suit, looking at me like I'm the most dangerous thing in his world.
"Happy now?" he asks, moving toward me.
I back up, suddenly aware of how little I'm wearing, of how the thin white cami must look soaked through. "Getting there."
