Page 85 of Savage Saint
"I don't know if I can separate them," I admit. "The real me and what they made me."
"So don't. Accept all of it. The darkness and the light. The killer and the woman who risks herself to save girls she doesn't know."
My breath catches. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"See good in me when all I can see is blood."
Angelo sits beside me, his arm around my shoulders, drawing me against his side. "Because I've been where you are. Hating what I am. What I've done. But hating yourself doesn't help anyone. It doesn't bring back the dead. It just keeps you from living."
"I don't deserve to live when they don't."
"Maybe not. But you're here anyway. So make it mean something."
The simplicity of his words breaks something in me. A dam I've built to hold back all the pain, all the guilt, all the fear. It bursts, and suddenly I'm sobbing against his chest, ugly, wrenching cries that tear at my throat.
Angelo doesn't shush me or tell me it will be okay. He just holds me, one hand stroking my hair, the other firm around my waist, keeping me anchored when I feel like I might fall apart.
I don't know how long we stay like that. Long enough for my tears to soak his skin. Long enough for the sobs to quiet into hiccups.
"I can't do this alone," I finally whisper against his chest.
His lips press against the top of my head. "You're not alone anymore, Butterfly. You don't ever have to be alone again."
I pull back just enough to look at his face. There's no pity there, no false promises. Just fierce determination.
"You can't fix me," I warn him.
"I'm not trying to fix you. I'm just trying to hold you together while you fix yourself."
Something shifts in my chest, not hope, exactly, but maybe the possibility of hope. The idea that maybe, just maybe, my story isn't finished being written.
"I'm still a killer," I say.
"So am I."
"I'm broken."
"So am I."
I take a shaky breath. "I'm scared."
His arms tighten around me. "So am I, Butterfly. So am I."
In his arms, with my face pressed against the steady beat of his heart, I finally let myself believe that maybe broken things can still be beautiful. Maybe two people can find peace in eachother's darkness. Maybe we can heal, not despite our scars, but because of them.
And for now, that's enough.
27
KASIA
Angelo scoops me up off the floor, one arm beneath my knees and the other supporting my back.
"What are you doing?" I mutter against his chest, inhaling the intoxicating scent of him. The sandalwood and something dark and dangerous that's become so familiar.
"Taking you back to bed," he replies, his gravelly voice rumbling through his chest and into mine. The vibration sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
