Page 81 of Savage Saint
"I do see you." His voice drops lower, rougher. "That's the problem."
We circle each other, the air between us charged with something more than just the threat of violence. Every step feels like part of a dance we've been rehearsing all our lives.
"Then let me do what I was made for," I plead, not backing down. "Let me be the weapon aimed at the right target for once."
His jaw tightens, the muscles in his neck straining. "You are more than your training."
"So are you," I counter. "But it doesn't change what we're good at."
I strike again, faster this time, landing a blow to his side. He grunts, finally engaging, grabbing my arm and twisting it behind my back, his chest pressed to mine.
"I won't lose you," he growls, his breath hot against my ear.
I twist in his hold, using his own momentum to break free. "You don't have me to lose."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I need him angry. Need him to stop treating me like I'll break.
"Don't I?" he asks, and there's something raw in his voice that makes me falter again.
I take a step back, trying to gather my thoughts. "I'm going to help those girls whether you want me to or not. If I have to fight my way past you to do it, I will."
His eyes narrow, assessing. He sees the truth in my words.
"And if I chained you to the bed?" he asks, only half joking.
I meet his gaze straight on. "I'd break my wrist to slip the cuff and still go."
A muscle in his jaw jumps. Neither of us moves. We're locked in this moment, this battle of wills that feels bigger than just tonight. His eyes never leave mine, dark and fierce with something I'm afraid to name.
In three quick strides, Angelo closes the distance between us. I try to dart left, but he's too fast. His hands slam against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in with his body.
"You're not going anywhere," he growls, his face inches from mine.
The heat from his body surrounds me. I push against his chest, but it's like trying to move a mountain.
"I hate you," I hiss, my hands balling into fists against the solid wall of him. I hate how he makes me feel—trapped, safe, furious, wanting—all at once.
His eyes drop to my lips, then back up. "No, you don't."
The way he says it, so certain, so fucking smug, makes me want to slap him. Or kiss him. The line between the two feels dangerously thin right now.
I don't get to decide which. His mouth crashes down on mine, hard and demanding. There's nothing gentle about it. Nothing sweet. It's violence and need and everything we've been holding back since that first day.
I bite his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. He groans, the sound vibrating through my body, and grips my hips roughly enough to bruise. Good. I want marks. Want proof this happened.
My hands find his hair, twisting, pulling, as his tongue pushes into my mouth. He tastes of mint mixed with danger, and I drink him in like I'm dying of thirst.
"Jesus," he mutters against my mouth, lifting me up. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively, heels digging into his back.
He slams me harder against the wall, grinding between my legs. The thin fabric of my shorts does nothing to hide how much I want this. Want him.
His hands tear at my shirt. I hear the fabric rip, feel cool air on my skin, and I don't care. I'm clawing at his buttons, popping them in my hurry, needing to feel skin on skin.
My nails rake down his chest, leaving angry red lines. He hisses, retaliating by biting the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder.
"Fuck," I gasp as his teeth sink in, just hard enough to send sparks shooting through my body.
His hands are everywhere, rough on my breasts, sliding under the waistband of my shorts, gripping my ass. Every touch brands me, claims me in a way no one else ever could.
