Page 83 of Savage Saint
Angelo lays me on his bed with surprising gentleness, the sheets cool against my heated skin. For a moment, he just looks at me, his eyes travelling over my body with a mix of hunger and something deeper that makes my chest tight.
He strips off what remains of his clothes and joins me, pulling me against his chest. I can feel him hard against my thigh, but he makes no move to take things further, just holds me close, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin.
"Tell me this is real," he says after a long moment, his voice rough and low.
I look up, startled by the vulnerability in his tone. This isn't the ruthless killer, the man they call Savage. This is just Angelo, raw and open in a way I never expected to see. My Angel.
"As long as you're holding me," I whisper, pressing my palm against his chest, feeling his heart beat steady beneath my touch. The truth of it surprises me. How real this feels, how right, when nothing felt solid for so long.
His arms tighten around me, and I let myself sink into his embrace. There's a strange safety here in this surrender, in letting down the walls I've built so high. With him, I don't have to be strong. Don't have to be anything but what I am.
I slide my hand down his body, feeling the ridges of muscle tense beneath my touch. "What about you?" I ask, my fingers dipping lower.
He catches my wrist gently. "My time will come," he says, pressing a kiss to my palm. "You need to rest."
I want to argue, but exhaustion tugs at me, my body heavy with release and the toll of constant vigilance. "I haven't been sleeping well," I admit reluctantly.
"I know." His thumb brushes across my cheek, tracing the shadows I know must be visible under my eyes. "You've been tossing and turning most nights."
I nod against his chest, not trusting my voice. I don't tell him that my nightmares are my memories coming back. Each more gruesome than the last. I don't tell him that sometimes I wake up convinced I can smell my father's cologne in the darkness.
Instead, I let Angelo pull the blankets over us both, his body curled protectively around mine, like he could shield me from the monsters in my head. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel my muscles truly relax, my breathing slowing to match his.
I wake sometime later, surrounded by the softness of Angelo's sheets.
My mind wanders to a place I've tried to lock away, but the door keeps splintering open. I close my eyes, and suddenly, I'm not here anymore.
I'm in a penthouse suite in Washington. The lights of the city twinkle below like fallen stars. I adjust the silencer on my Beretta with practised ease. My fingers don't tremble. They never do.
The target is a businessman with connections to three different governments. He likes young women. He likes power. Tonight, he'll learn what real power is.
I slip into the bedroom where he sleeps beside his mistress. She's young, maybe twenty. I don't look at her face. Rule number one: don't humanise collateral damage.
The bedroom is all whites and creams. Expensive. Tasteful. The sheets are silk, real silk, not the synthetic stuff. I know because I've felt both against my skin.
My footsteps make no sound on the plush carpet. I stand over him for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall. He's dreaming. He won't wake up.
Two shots. One for him, one for her. Quick. Clean. No suffering. That's one thing I insisted on, even when Jerzy wanted me to make it last.
The blood blooms like roses on the silk sheets. Like a Polish flag. Red on white. Beautiful, in its own twisted way.
I turn to leave, and there's a mirror on the wall. I catch my reflection—sixteen years old, empty eyes, gun still warm in my hand. No expression on my face. Not a hint of remorse.
This is who you are, Jerzy's voice whispers in my ear.My perfect creation. Death in a pretty package.
I blink, and I'm back in Angelo's bedroom, gasping for air. The memory feels so real I can almost smell the metallic tang of blood, the lingering scent of expensive perfume.
My phone is on the nightstand. I grab it, hands shaking now, and search the businessman's name along with "Washington". It takes seconds to find the headlines.
"HORRIFIC DOUBLE MURDER STUNS DIPLOMATIC COMMUNITY"
I drop the phone like it's burned me. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't my imagination trying to fill in the blanks.
I did that. I killed those people. And not just them, there are faces flashing through my mind, all with blank stares, all surrounded by pools of blood. My stomach twists as I realise the truth. I wasn't just any assassin; I wasfeared. I was a legend in certain circles. The monster parents warned their children about.
I stumble out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before I vomit. I retch until there's nothing left but bile and self-loathing.
When I'm done, I sit on the cold tile floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to my chest. I can't escape this. Can't outrun it. Can't pretend I'm someone else.
