Page 9 of Savage Saint
“Cazzo,” Angelo swears. “Stay here,” he commands, his tone leaving no argument as dread fills my lungs.
5
BUTTERFLY
“You too,” he looks pointedly at Alessa.
My stomach clenches as my feet hit the floor.
“Don’t,” I whisper. I can’t be left behind, defenceless and alone. My feet take me to where he’s standing, my hand touching his sleeve before he can turn. The grasp I have on him is weak but desperate. “Don’t leave me.”
He pauses, his gaze flicking to my hand on his arm, before he looks into my eyes. His mask slips, as the molten chocolate melts and his features soften. “I’m not leaving you, Butterfly,” he says, his deep voice wrapping around me like a cosy blanket. “You’ll be safe here.”
“Angelo,” Dante barks from the door, making the mask fall into place as Angelo’s head snaps to him.
“Come on.” Alessa takes my hand and leads me back to the bed. “I found some surgical scrubs. Not much in terms of covering, but better than letting your ass hang out, yeah?” She hands me the paper tunic and trousers still packaged in the plastic wrapping. I watch as Angelo, Dante and Luca disappear through the door before taking the scrubs from her. They’re flimsy, almost see-through in the fluorescent lighting of theroom, but she’s right, they’re better than nothing. I hold the parcel against my chest unsure what to do next.
“Do you need help?”
“No,” I answer hastily. “I just... I’ll go to the bathroom to change.”
“I’ll keep watch,” she smiles reassuringly.
“I’ll be quick,” I nod before turning around and walking to the en suite bathroom.
Closing the door behind me, I exhale for the first time since the sound of gunshots rang out. It’s a false sense of security, especially since I’m now in a small enclosed space with no means of escape. My hands shake as I rip open the plastic wrapping, pulling out the scrubs. The paper-thin fabric crinkles loudly as I unfold it, my breaths shallow.
I catch my reflection in the mirror and gasp. The woman staring back at me is a stranger. Her face is gaunt and her skin is a patchwork of bruises—purple, and yellow hues mixing with angry reds stretching across her arms, shoulders, and neck. My hair hangs limply around my face, streaked with dirt and sweat. It looks dirty, dull and lifeless. I reach up to touch it, my fingers tangling in the grime. Strawberry blonde. The thought flickers in my mind, faint but certain. That’s what it should be. This isn’t me. None of this feels like me.
A fresh wave of nausea rolls through me as my eyes trail down the body that is mine but feels foreign. Slowly I peel the hospital gown, letting it fall to the ground leaving me completely exposed. I shouldn’t be shocked, considering the battered state of my body, but I still am. My ribs are protruding against my skin. Have I been starved?
Beneath the bruises, though, there’s something else. Muscles. My arms, legs and stomach are defined, built with a strength that feels out of place against the rest of my body. I turn slightly, catching a glimpse of a burned letter N on my lefthip, the jagged edges look raw under the harsh light. And then, another thing catches my eye, another mark that doesn’t belong there. Higher up, just below where my bra strap would sit. It’s not a tattoo, it’s another brand. ‘Blackriver Kittens’ in barely healed black ink. The edges are inflamed and puckered, scabbing unevenly. It’s fresh, maybe a week old. Hesitantly, I run my fingers over the design, flinching at the sting. A wave of anger, fear, and revulsion hits me.
What the actual fuck?My hands grip the edge of the sink as I lean forward, trying to reconcile the person I see with the person I used to be. But my mind remains blank, bar the few terrifying flashes I had earlier.
The bruises, the brand, the tattoo—they all tell a story, one I can’t remember but feel deep in my bones. My reflection stares back, hollow and broken, and yet there’s something in my pale blue eyes, a flash of something small but defiant. Strength. I don’t know how I survived whatever I went through, but I did. And I sure as hell will survive whatever is happening outside this hospital room, too.
I pull the paper-thin scrubs over my body, wincing as the scratchy fabric grazes my sensitive skin. Alessa was right, they do little to cover me. In fact, I can see the outline of my areolas underneath. Automatically my gaze drifts to the black tattoo beneath my breast and down to the letter burned onto my hip, bile rising in my throat as the wordpropertyechoes in my mind. Fuck this. I’m not anyone’s property. I have not survived all of this to be someone’s property. With a renewed resolve, I push open the door walking back into the hospital room. Alessa’s head turns to face me, the concern etched on her face smoothing as soon as she notices me watching her.
“Maybe you should take my jacket.” She bites her bottom lip.
I shrug just as the door opens and Angelo rushes back in, bursting through like the hospital is on fire. He scans the room,briefly noticing Alessa before landing on me. His steps falter and he freezes in his tracks, his dark eyes locking onto me, then moving down my body. Slow and deliberate, like he’s got all the time in the world. The intensity of his perusal makes my skin prickle with heat, despite the cool breeze coming from the open window. His jaw tightens, and he swallows hard, his gaze bouncing between the bruises scattered across my arms, the branded letter on my hip and the tattoo beneath my breasts.
For a moment, I’m unable to move. Angelo’s gaze feels heavy as it pins me in place, and I don’t know what scares me more, the raw hunger or the rage that flickers in his eyes. Whatever it is, it’s making me feel exposed, making the room get smaller with every breath I take. My arms cross instinctively over my chest, trying to shield myself from his scrutiny, but it’s no use.
“Yeah, definitely need a jacket,” Alessa murmurs behind me, throwing her jacket over my shoulders and breaking the spell. “Not like we’re getting shot at or anything.”
There’s mirth in her voice despite our situation.
Angelo shakes his head and steps forward. “We have to go,” he snaps. His eyes avoiding me.
“Where’s Da–”
“No time,” he interrupts Alessa’s question. “Nico’s men are in the parking lot. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d hedge they’re here to collect what’s theirs.”
I stiffen. “I’m not their property,” I say coldly.
“Unless you want to explain it to them, we have to get going. You’re not safe here,Butterfly.”
