Page 67 of Savage Saint
My bathroom comes back into focus, water still running, mirror now fogged. I'm shaking.
I force myself under the scalding spray, grabbing soap and scrubbing at my skin until it's raw. But the blood won't come off my hands. I scrub harder, my nails digging into my palms.
Another memory hits me, and I'm drowning in it before I can fight back.
"Jeszcze raz. Szybciej." Again. Faster.
"No mercy." Jerzy's voice echoes in the training room, bouncing off concrete walls as I slam my opponent to the ground.
The boy is older than me, stronger, but slower. His eyes widen in fear as I pin him, face scrunching in pain as I press my fingers against the open wounds I inflicted. We both know what's expected. What happens to the loser.
"Finish it," Jerzy says coldly from the edge of the mat.
I hesitate, just for a second. The boy's eyes plead with me.
"Kasia." My name becomes a warning in Jerzy's mouth.
My hands move before I can stop them. A quick, practised twist. The crack of bone. The boy goes limp beneath me.
Blood pools on the training mat. My hands, covered. Always covered.
They were all dead. All the children who trained with me. Some by my hand, some by others. None of us got attached. We couldn't afford to.
"Mój maly wilczek," Jerzy says, his voice almost proud as he strokes my hair. "Nauczylem cie dobrze."
My little wolf. I've taught you well.
"Dziekuje, tato," I whisper, forcing gratitude I don't feel.
The slap comes without warning, snapping my head to the side.
"In here, you don't call me that," he hisses, fingers digging into my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"Yes, sir," I correct myself, voice steady despite the pain.
His expression softens into something like affection, though it never reaches his eyes. He runs his thumb along my cheek where he'd struck me.
"Zabki i pazurki takie ostre," he murmurs.Teeth and claws so sharp.
I return to myself on the shower floor, knees pulled to my chest, water running cold over my back. I'm rocking slightly, head pressed against the tile.
My left hand is bloodied again, but this time it's by my own doing. I've dug my nails so deep into my palm that I've broken skin.
I'm not that little girl anymore. But I'm not free of her either.
"Butterfly?" I flinch at the sound of his voice, sharp but distant.
"You okay in there?" Angelo's voice drifts through the room, less commanding than usual. There's a hint of something else. Worry, maybe?
"Fine," I call back, trying to make the word sound solid. Whole. I fail.
"You've been in there almost an hour." His voice drops lower. Softer. "Just making sure you haven't drowned."
An hour? The water has long turned cold. I hadn't noticed, lost in memories that aren't quite mine. Or are they? I can't tell anymore what's real and what's just smoke in my head. I turn the shower off.
"I'll be out in a minute."
The stairs creak beneath him as he shifts his weight, hesitating. "Take your time. I just—" He stops himself. "I'll be in the kitchen."
