Page 60 of Savage Saint
My stomach drops. "How long were you listening?"
"Long enough." His jaw ticks with tension, a muscle jumping under the skin. "So you want me? That what you were telling her?"
I try to look away, but his hand moves to my face, calloused thumb brushing my cheek. The gentle touch is such a stark contrast to the hard man before me that I feel something break inside. To my horror, tears begin welling in my eyes.
"Don't," I whisper, blinking rapidly, desperate not to let them fall. Not here, not now. Not in front of him.
His other hand comes up, framing my face between his palms. Those hands that beat a man to death, that I've seen curled into fists so tight the knuckles turned white, now hold me with a gentleness I can barely comprehend.
"You're not too broken," he says, his voice low, responding to what I'd confessed to Alessa. "You think I don't know broken? I invented that shit."
A tear escapes despite my efforts, trailing a hot path down my cheek. Angelo catches it with his thumb, his eyes following the movement with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.
"You don't even know me," I manage, hating the weakness in my voice.
"I know enough." His eyes flick down to my mouth, lingering there. "I know you got under my skin from the moment I found you. I know you're the only thing I've wanted that I won't let myself have."
"Why?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
"You're not broken," Angelo says again, avoiding my question. His voice is low and intense. There's a dangerous edge to his words, a hint of the violence he's capable of. "Have you heard of Kintsugi?"
I shake my head, unable to look away from the fire in his eyes. My brain screams at me to push him away, to run before I'm in too deep, but my body refuses to move. His hands on my face are both a comfort and a brand, marking me.
"It's the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold," he explains, his thumbs still caressing my face, the gentleness at odds with the steel in his gaze. "The philosophy is that the cracks and repairs are part of the object's history, making it more beautiful, more precious."
My heart hammers against my ribs, a wild thing trying to escape. How can he make me feel so seen when I don't even know who I am? How can he look at me—this shattered mess of a person—and see something worth saving?
His hands slide down to cup my jaw, firm and unyielding. "You, Kasia, are like that gold. What you've been through, the scars you carry... They don't make you broken. They make you priceless." His grip tightens slightly. "And mine to protect."
Mine. The word should terrify me. Instead, it wraps around me like a promise, like shelter in a storm.
"You don't even know what I've done," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "What if my scars aren't beautiful? What if they're just ugly reminders of mistakes I can't take back?"
Angelo's dark eyes bore into mine, searching for something I'm not sure I can give. "Do you think I care? Do you think these hands are clean?" He flexes them against my skin for emphasis. "We're all made of mistakes, Butterfly. The difference is what we build from them."
My heart hammers in my throat as I look up at Angelo. His eyes are dark pools of barely restrained hunger. The space between us feels electric, charged with something I can't name but my body recognises. I swallow hard.
"The scars you saw... the fresh ones... they weren't the only ones." The words tumble out before I can stop them. Fragments of memory flash behind my eyes: pain, blood, a knife's edge. Things I've been pushing away, denying. But I know they're real. As real as the man standing before me, his hands still cradling my face like I'm made of glass.
Angelo stiffens. A muscle ticks in his jaw, his expression hardening into something deadly. His hands slide from my face to my waist, fingers just brushing the hem of my shirt. I feel them there, not quite touching skin, but burning all the same.
"Show me," he says, his voice a rough command that sends a shiver up my spine.
I shake my head. "Not yet." Not when I don't fully understand them myself. Not when the memories are still jagged pieces that cut when I try to hold them.
The air between us thickens, heavy with things unsaid. His eyes drop to my lips, and I stop breathing. I can feel his indecision like a physical thing, the battle raging inside him mirroring my own. Want versus wisdom. Desire versus restraint.
I lean forward just a fraction, drawn to him like gravity. For a moment, one heart-stopping moment, I think he'll close the distance. His pupils dilate, breath hitching audibly. I can almost taste him on my tongue.
But then he takes a deep, shuddering breath. His chest expands with the effort, and I watch as control snaps back into place.
He doesn't kiss me.
Instead, he pulls me into his arms. One large hand cradles the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. The other splays across my lower back, pressing me firmly against the solid wall of his chest. I can feel his heart thundering against my cheek, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
"I've got you, Butterfly," Angelo murmurs into my hair, his voice rough with emotion. "No one will ever hurt you again."
The words send a shiver through me. They're more than comfort, they're a vow. There's possession in his tone, a primal claim that speaks to something equally wild within me.
