Page 11 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

W armth.

It clings to me, thick and consuming, wrapping itself around every inch of my body like a second skin.

It’s heavy, dense, almost suffocating, but I don’t fight it.

A deep exhaustion lingers in my bones, an ache that isn’t just physical but something deeper, something I can’t quite name.

For a moment, I allow myself to exist in this space.

This hazy, in-between place where reality hasn’t yet pierced the dream, where my body is still caught in the comfort of half-consciousness.

Then I shift, just slightly, and the awareness slams into me like a freight train. Something solid is behind me. Heat. Strength. The unmistakable press of muscle against my back.

My breath catches, but I don’t move. Not yet.

Slowly, I inhale, the scent filling my lungs before I can stop it. Sandalwood. Citrus. Something darker, sharper. Something that belongs to only one man.

Angelo.

My eyes flutter open, but I don’t turn over. I don’t need to. I already know. The memories creep in, unravelling in my mind like smoke.

The nightmare. The panic. The moment I called his name into the darkness.

And the way he came for me.

I can still feel it—his arms around me, strong and steady. The way his voice rumbled through his chest, telling me I was safe. Like he meant it. Like if he held me tight enough, he could make it true.

And he’s still here.

His arm draped over my waist, heavy and comforting. Not accidental. Not careless. Like he meant to stay.

A shiver runs through me, but I don’t pull away even though I know I should. I should roll out of his grasp, and put as much distance between us as possible, remind myself I don’t know who he is. Don’t know who I am.

But for one second—just one—I let myself sink into it. The illusion. The lie. That I am safe. That I am protected. That he would protect me.

The thought is dangerous. It slithers through my veins, thick and intoxicating, numbing the rational part of my brain that knows better.

Because men like him, men with sharp eyes and sharper edges, men who move through the world like they own it, like it bends to their will, they don’t get to be soft.

And yet, here he is.

Holding me.

The warmth disappears before I can hold on to it.

It starts with a shift. A slow inhale, deeper than before. The subtle tightening of the arm around my waist, fingers flexing for just a second before they go still. His breath changes, no longer even, no longer lost in sleep.

With a sharp inhale, he’s awake.

And just like that, the moment is gone. His arm is gone. The weight of him disappearing as if it was never there at all. One second, I’m wrapped in heat, in safety, in something dangerously close to comfort. The next, the bed feels too big, too cold.

Angelo pulls away like I’m something to be discarded, his body going rigid beside me. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me. The space between us stretches wide, an invisible wall slamming back into place.

Something sharp presses against my ribs. Something I don’t want to name.

It was just a moment. Nothing more.

I exhale, my fingers twitching where they rest against the sheets. As if my body hasn’t realised what my mind already knows. That whatever warmth I found in him last night is gone.

Good.

That’s what I should want.

Angelo sits up, his movements stiff, like his own body is betraying him. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers gripping the strands for half a second before dropping to the back of his neck, tension rolling off him in waves. For just a moment, his mask slips.

His jaw tightens, his gaze unreadable. And yet, there’s something there. Something flickering beneath the surface, a crack in the carefully crafted indifference.

Then, like every single commitment-phobe on earth, he smothers it.

“I shouldn’t have stayed.” His voice is gruff, clipped. He still doesn’t look at me.

Whatever fragile thread was left between us snaps with his words.

I exhale slowly, masking the sting, leaning back against the pillows like this entire situation is nothing more than an afterthought.

My eyes scan the room automatically, cataloguing details I hadn't noticed in the dark: two exits—the door and a floor-to-ceiling window that opens onto a narrow balcony.

The letter opener on his desk could work as a weapon.

And the lamp cord could be useful. I blink, startled by my own thoughts. Where did that come from?

“I shouldn’t have asked you to,” I say, keeping my tone light, like last night hadn’t changed anything.

Because it didn’t.

It can’t.

No matter how safe he made me feel, deep down, I know it’s just an illusion. There’s no such a thing as safety. The marks on my body are a stark reminder of that.

His gaze flicks to me, sharp, like he’s waiting for something. A reaction. An admission. Anything.

I don’t give him one. Instead, I smile sweetly. Fake. Easy. A muscle memory I didn’t know I possessed.

There’s a flicker in his eyes, something dark, unreadable. But then it’s gone, buried under a carefully crafted indifference. He exhales through his nose, his gaze shifting past me, focusing on the world outside the window as he stands up.

The man who held me all night? Gone.

The silence between us is thick, stretching across the room like a live wire.

Shifting under the sheets, I watch him, waiting for the inevitable dismissal.

It comes faster than I expected.

“Get dressed. I’ll make breakfast.” His voice is clipped. Cold. Like the man who took care of me and held me tight is all but a distant memory. His words are a cold shower I needed to wake me up from the fake sense of security. I don’t belong here.

I slide out of bed deliberately slow, stretching just enough to feel the pull in my sore muscles and biting down the wince.

His jaw tics. But he doesn’t look. Instead, he moves to his wardrobe with stiff, measured steps, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a small amber glass bottle. He turns back toward me and holds it out. “Put this on your burn.” His voice is neutral, but the tension in his jaw says otherwise.

Our fingers brush as I take it from him, but he releases it too quickly, like even that brief touch is too much.

I glance down at the label. Vitamin E oil.

A burn. He means the letter N branded onto my skin. I lift my gaze, pinning him with it, daring him to acknowledge what he’s trying so hard to ignore.

His expression stays blank. But I see it. The flicker of something in his eyes. Frustration. Guilt. Something darker, something deeper.

“Thank you,” I finally say, not wanting to come across as ungrateful despite this apathy of his, which is really starting to annoy me.

Angelo’s jaw locks, his fingers curling into fists at his sides, but still, he doesn’t say anything.

Tucking the bottle under my arm, I huff and walk past him, heading toward the bathroom. I don’t spare him a second glance. If he wants distance, he can have it.

Because I don’t need him. I can find my way out of whatever mess I am in all by myself.

The hot water scalds my skin, but I don’t adjust the temperature. I welcome the burn, letting it chase away the tension still wrapped around my muscles.

As I stand under the spray, I let myself breathe. Let the weight of last night dissolve down the drain. Let the truth sink in. I need to get out of here.

Fast.

I don’t belong in this house, in his bed, in whatever twisted version of reality this is.

The only problem? I have no idea where to go.

Yet.

But that’ll change. It has to. My memories are still gone, but they’re slowly coming back, piece by piece. It won’t be long before I know more than just my name. And then I can get the hell out of here.

I shut off the water and step out, grabbing a towel and drying myself off.

My gaze lands on the brown bottle on the edge of the sink.

Reluctantly, I uncap it and pour a few drops onto my fingers.

The brand is pink, tender, but there’s new skin over the wound.

It hurts like a motherfucker when I apply the oil, but I do it anyway.

The air in the bedroom is still thick with his presence, the faint scent of citrus and sandalwood clinging to the sheets. There’s a tube of antibiotic ointment on the pillow with a note to put it over my tattoo. I stare at it for a second too long, irritation sparking under my skin.

For someone so determined to keep me at arm’s length, he sure as hell is dedicated to taking care of me.

A contradiction.

Cold and distant one second, thoughtful and careful the next.

I shove the thought away as I smooth the cream over the seeping tattoo. It stings, but I barely flinch. It’s far from the pain I remember enduring in my dreams.

With a huff, I move toward his wardrobe. Most of his clothes are neatly pressed suits. Dark and crisp, tailored for a man who doesn’t believe in casual. I don’t have the luxury of being picky.

I grab a white t-shirt and a pair of drawstring sweatpants, rolling the waistband until they sit high enough to stay up. They hang loose, swallowing me whole, but I don’t care. I don’t need to look good.

I just need to be ready. Because no matter what it takes, I’m leaving.

Angelo thinks he can keep me here, tucked away in his cage made of glass. Like I’m some problem that needs locking away until it can be solved. But I’m not a problem. I’m a person. And people don’t just belong to someone because they were rescued.

Rescued.

The word tastes bitter in my mouth as I slip out of the bedroom, bare feet silent against the hardwood floor. I don’t know where I’m going, only that I need to keep moving.

Need to think.

Need to find a way to disappear before I let myself believe, even for a second, that I’m safe here. But as I walk down the last few steps and turn towards the kitchen, a low, clipped voice stops me in my tracks.

Angelo.

Pressing myself against the wall, I listen to the sound of his voice curling around the space like smoke. Not raised, not angry, just… final.