Page 10 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

ANGELO

I half-watch the TV, but the flickering screen barely registers as I mentally replay the events of the last few hours.

The sound is nothing more than white noise, a poor attempt at filling the stifling silence around me.

So much has happened since I found her, bruised and unconscious in the container just over a day ago.

My leg bounces restlessly, a telltale sign of my mind running in circles, fuelled by an anxious energy I can’t seem to shake.

Trying to quiet the swirling thoughts in my head, I focus on the flashing images on the screen. It doesn’t work. It never does.

I can’t sleep. Not tonight. Not while she’s here, vulnerable and trusting me to protect her.

The house is silent. Too silent. The glass walls make the space feel larger than it is, the cold light of the moon filtering in, casting sharp shadows across the hardwood floors.

The darkness stretches outward, swallowing the edges of the living room.

I built it this way, an extension of myself.

A place where no one gets in. Where I don’t have to let anyone in.

There are no guest bedrooms because I’ve never wanted anyone here.

Never envisioned anyone but me in this space.

And yet, she’s here.

Not just in my home, in my bed, but in my fucking head. Throwing me off balance.

Her presence scratches against the carefully constructed control I’ve spent years perfecting. I can’t sleep. I never do. But tonight, it’s not the usual insomnia. It’s not the ghosts of the past creeping in, or the weight of the blood I’ve spilled keeping me awake. It’s her.

Butterfly.

I exhale sharply, running a hand through my hair. This isn’t me. I don’t let people in. I don’t let them affect me. And yet, here I am, my body thrumming with an unfamiliar tension, my mind stuck on the way my name sounded in her sleep, the way she clung to me like I was something safe.

She doesn’t know me. If she did, she’d know there’s nothing safe about me.

The thought alone should be enough to plant me firmly where I am, but it isn’t. Before I even register what I’m doing, I’m pushing off the couch, my movements too controlled, too calculated, like if I pretend I’m just checking on her, it won’t mean anything.

The stairs creak softly under my weight as I ascend to the master bedroom floor. My pace is steady, measured, but my pulse betrays me, beating a little too fast, a little too loud.

I pause on the last step, hovering just out of sight. I tell myself it’s just so I can listen, to make sure she’s still breathing, to ensure she isn’t having a nightmare. That’s what this is. A precaution. Nothing more.

Her breathing is soft, uneven. The faintest sound, but somehow, it reaches me, like a fucking whisper in a storm.

I exhale through my nose, jaw tightening. This is a mistake.

And yet, I take a few steps in and slink out of the shadows.

The room is bathed in moonlight, illuminating the way she’s tangled in the sheets, her face scrunched in distress.

Her body twists, fingers clutching the fabric like she’s holding on for dear life.

She looks small in my massive bed, fragile in a way that doesn’t suit her.

I should turn around, I should walk back downstairs and sit my ass down on the couch. Not creep over her. Instead, I cross the room quietly and settle into the wingback chair in the corner. My eyes locked onto her.

Watching.

Waiting.

She shifts suddenly, a sharp inhale slicing through the silence. Her fingers twitch, then clutch at the sheets, her muscles going rigid. Her body curls inward as if bracing for impact, as if she’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dangerous.

A soft whimper escapes her lips. The sound digging under my skin like a splinter.

I lean forward in the chair, fingers flexing against my knees, an instinct I don’t fucking recognise whispering at me to do something. To fix it. To make it stop.

But I don’t move.

I don’t soothe.

I don’t comfort.

That’s not who I am. Comfort isn't in my vocabulary. Never has been. Not since Massimo caught me crying over my first kill. 'Tears are weakness,' he'd said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. 'And Santoros aren't weak.' The bruises had lasted weeks. The lesson, forever.

And yet, when she lets out another broken sound, something inside me shifts. Something tightens, then snaps. Before I can think better of it, I’m rising from the chair, standing in place unable to look away. She’s muttering now, the words slipping from her lips in frantic, breathless gasps.

“Nie… nie… Prosz?…”

Something clicks into place. It’s not just a nightmare, it’s a memory. My hands clench into fists. I tell myself I won’t interfere. That this isn’t my place.

Then she whispers my name.

And I forget every fucking reason why I should stay away.

She sits up, a tear slipping down her cheek as she takes a shaky breath.

My name tumbles from her lips next. Soft, desperate. Not a scream, not a plea, but something worse. An anchor. A fucking lifeline.

And I break.

I cross the room and sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight, hesitating for a moment before brushing the damp strands of hair from her forehead. My fingers barely graze her skin, but it’s enough. Her body reacts immediately, flinching first, then melting into the touch.

I don’t do this.

I don’t touch without reason.

But she shifts, her fingers twitching against the sheets, hesitant.

Slowly, cautiously, she reaches, not for protection, but for something unspoken.

Something neither of us knows how to name.

The last time someone reached for me like that, trusted me like that, I'd been forced to paint the walls with their blood.

Trust is a death sentence in my world. Massimo made sure I learned that lesson early.

I should pull back. I should let her go. Instead, I do the opposite.

I move before I can stop myself, pulling her against me, tucking her head under my chin. My arm wraps around her waist, pulling her to me, and for the first time since I started watching her sleep, the tension in her body begins to unwind.

“Shhh. You’re safe,” I murmur, my voice a low rumble as my arms tighten around her. “No one’s going to hurt you, Butterfly.”

She trembles, her fingers gripping the fabric of my shirt, holding on as if I’m the only thing that can keep her safe.

It is that thought that has me stiffening around her.

Because I’m no one’s saviour. I’m the nightmare.

The monster. And yet here I am, pretending like I could be something I’m not.

Whispering comforting words into her hair.

Holding her as if I could fool myself into being gentle.

I’m not what she needs. I’m not what she seeks.

“Angelo,” she whispers again. The scent of her hair fills my senses, and for a moment, I let myself pretend we’re different people in a different world. That maybe I can be all those things for her.

But then awareness crashes back, a cold shower washing away the warmth of the illusion. As much as I’d like to pretend, I can’t be her solace. I’m the one she should be scared of.

With a jolt, I stand, the action more reflex than choice.

She falls away from me, tumbling gracelessly off my lap and back onto the sheets, her bright blue eyes wide and searching, her red hair tangled from all the thrashing.

My pulse thrums, aching to take back the moment we shared, to pull her into my arms again, but the self-loathing wins over and I take a step away from her.

“Sorry,” I mutter, unsure what exactly am I apologising for, touching her or letting her go.

She looks up at me, confused and hurt, and the guilt twists in my gut.

“I—” I clear my throat, trying to ignore the unfamiliar feeling crawling up my neck. “Do you want water?”

She blinks, her eyebrows scrunching as she studies me. “Sure,” she says after a pause, her voice barely above a whisper.

I go to the nightstand and open the door of the built-in mini fridge, pulling out a bottle of cold water.

She watches my every move, the silence between us stretching.

When I turn around and hand her the bottle, her fingers brush mine, and I pull back too quickly, like her touch burns.

But the truth is, it’s the very thing I’m starting to crave.

“Thank you,” she says, taking a sip. The tension in the room shifts, subtle but undeniable, as her gaze lingers on me.

She sets the bottle down and looks up at me, something flickering in her pale blue eyes. “I—I remember my name,” she says suddenly. Her voice is tentative, but there’s also determination in her tone. “Kasia.”

“Kasia...” I repeat, liking the sound of it. It fits her. Foreign and enigmatic, just like the owner. “It suits you, Butterfly.”

“I think I might be Polish,” she hesitates. “No, I’m sure. They were speaking Polish, and I understood.”

I nod, trying to mask the sudden urge to close the distance between us. A name. A different language. All vital pieces of a puzzle. “That’s a good start,” I say gruffly. “Anything else?”

She hesitates and opens her mouth as if she’s about to say something, but then closes it again, shaking her head. Not wanting to press, I let it go. I fish my phone out of my pocket and turn to leave the room. I need to call Arrow and Dante. Tell them the new information.

“Will you—” her voice breaks me out of my thoughts and I stop, turning my head to face her. She clears her throat. “Will you stay? With me?” Her voice is small.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, my knuckles going white around the phone in my hand.

I don't do this. I don't protect. I destroy.

That's what I was made for, what I was trained for.

Every time I've tried to be something else—someone else—it's ended in blood and betrayal.

Yet here I am, breaking my own rules for a woman who doesn't even know what kind of monster she's asking to stay.

“Please.” She licks her lips, making them shine in the moonlight. “I don’t want to be alone. Not tonight.” Her eyes are large and pleading.

My instincts scream at me to say no, to turn around and walk out, leave her behind. But the vulnerability in her eyes roots me to the spot. And against every single warning in my head, I nod, sliding the phone back into my pocket.

Swallowing, I walk back to the bed and sit rigidly on the edge, above the covers and as far from her as possible. She shifts slightly, lying down and resting her head on the pillow, but I can feel her eyes on me, studying my posture.

The silence stretches between us, charged and heavy. Her breathing evens out, and I allow myself to glance at her from the corner of my eye. There’s something about her, something drawing me in despite knowing I should stay away.

As she drifts back to sleep, I can’t stop thinking about the way she called for me while having a nightmare. The way she looked at me. The way I couldn’t stop myself from rushing to her.

I know staying here in bed with her is a mistake. I can feel it in my bones. But for some reason, I can’t make myself leave.

My gaze slips from her face and turns to the darkness outside the window. The shadows shift and swirl behind the glass, a foreboding omen.

This woman will ruin me.

The minutes stretch, turning into an hour, maybe more. I don’t check the time. I just sit there, listening to her steady breathing. At some point, my gaze falls back to her and I allow myself to watch her as she sleeps, taking in the way her lips part slightly and the way her lashes flutter.

I won’t be able to sleep. I already know this.

My mind is too wired, too restless after today’s events.

My body is coiled tight with energy only a gruelling gym session would be able to expend.

It still wouldn’t help with sleep, though.

Insomnia is an old friend of mine. One I’ve made peace with over the years.

I used to try to meditate, work myself exhausted, but nothing ever helped.

So I stopped fighting it, welcoming the silence of the night instead.

But tonight is different.

Because she’s here, interrupting my sanctuary.

She shifts again, her body twisting, and a soft whimper escapes her lips. Tensing, I wait for her to still, but she doesn’t. The nightmares are creeping back in. Or are they memories? Just the thought of the two being interchangeable makes me move.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip beside her, the mattress shifting under my weight as I settle against her back. She’s small, fragile compared to me, but the moment I wrap my arms around her, she melts into me, sighing with relief. Her body seeking warmth, seeking me .

Just while she’s having a nightmare .

I let out a breath, my hand gently resting on her hip as I press my chest to her back, crossing all the lines I’ve drawn. The warmth of her seeps into my bones, calming and grounding. My lips brush against the shell of her ear as I whisper, “Just for tonight, Butterfly.”

She exhales, a sleepy sigh slipping past her lips. “Just for tonight.”

She doesn’t even realise she’s said it, and yet the words burrow into my chest like a promise. Like a fucking curse.

She drifts back into sleep, but I don’t. My heart hammering in my chest, I stare at the ceiling, the weight of what just happened settling in my bones.

I was supposed to stay away.

She was just a burden. A problem to be solved. But now, she’s something else.

A threat. Not to my life, but to the carefully constructed walls I’ve built.

I know what I have to do. Tomorrow, I’ll push her away. I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t belong here.

But right now…

I tighten my grip around her waist, inhaling the faint scent of my soap on her skin and fabric softener from my clothes on her body.

Right now, I let myself pretend.

She stirs slightly, pressing closer. I tell myself it means nothing. But deep down, I know I’m already losing the fight.

Her body softens, her breathing evens out, and before I can process what’s happening, before I can fight the pull of exhaustion, my eyelids grow heavy.

For the first time in years, sleep takes me without a fight.