Page 70 of Savage Saint
"Don't—"
"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs, and for once, there's no edge to his voice. No hardness. Just a quiet promise.
He slides into bed behind me, his body curling around mine, one arm draped over my waist, holding me close. His warmthseeps into my skin, his steady heartbeat against my back a rhythm to focus on.
It should feel suffocating, being held like this. Instead, it feels like the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
"Jerzy," I whisper. The name poisonous on my tongue. "I don't want the memories, Angelo. I can't. I don't want them anymore." A tear escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek.
Angelo goes still behind me, his body tensing, but he doesn't pull away. His arm tightens around my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.
"Do monsters deserve to be saved?" My voice is small, broken, barely audible even in the quiet room.
Angelo is silent for a long moment, his breathing the only sound. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, like he's dragging the words up from somewhere deep and painful.
"We're all monsters here," he says quietly. "Some of us just hide it better than others."
His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest. I should feel trapped, but instead, I feel safe.
"My first kill was when I was twelve," he continues, the words falling into the darkness between us. "Some piece of shit who thought he could steal from my father."
I hold my breath, afraid that if I move or speak, he'll stop. This glimpse into Angelo's past feels like a rare gift, precious and fragile.
"Dante was supposed to do it. It was his test. But he hesitated." There's no judgment in Angelo's voice, just simple facts. "So I took the gun. I didn't hesitate."
"Were you scared?" I whisper.
"No." The word hangs in the air, honest and terrible. "That's what scared me. How easy it was. My father used to call me hisperfect little monster."
I twist in his arms, turning to face him in the darkness. His eyes catch the faint light from the window, glinting like polished stones.
"Mine called me hisperfect little wolf." I bite my lip at the similarity. "Tell me more."
"After that, I became the family problem solver. The enforcer. The killer." His jaw tightens. "Every time it got easier. Every time I sank deeper."
My fingers find his face, tracing the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the stubble on his jaw. He closes his eyes at my touch.
"The darkness..." He pauses, searching for words. "It's not something that happens to you. It's something that's always there, waiting. And once you let it out, you can't put it back."
I know exactly what he means. I've felt that darkness curling inside me, patient and hungry.
"But you protect people," I say. "Your family. Me."
He laughs, a short, bitter sound. "I protect what's mine. That doesn't make me good, Butterfly. It just makes me territorial."
My thumb brushes over his bottom lip. "I think... Maybe it's not about being good or bad. Maybe it's about choices."
Angelo catches my wrist, pressing his lips to my palm. The gesture is unexpectedly tender from a man who just admitted to being a killer.
"I chose this life," he says against my skin. "I embraced what I am. I stopped fighting it a long time ago."
"And what are you?"
"I told you. A monster." The word doesn't sound like self-pity from his lips. It's matter-of-fact. "The savage one. The brother who does what needs to be done. The one who doesn't lose sleep over blood on his hands."
I think about the way he carried me from the container. The way he stood between me and danger, again and again. The way he's holding me now, like I'm something precious.
"Maybe," I whisper, "monsters are just what heroes look like in the dark."
