Page 17 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

F our days.

I trace patterns on the ceiling of Angelo's bedroom, counting the seconds ticking by on the clock mounted on the wall. Four days of silence stretched between Angelo and me like an invisible wall, built brick by brick with unspoken words and avoided glances.

Ten words. That's all we'd exchanged since that night in the forest.

"Coffee?" he'd asked the morning after.

"Thanks," I'd replied, taking the steaming mug.

"Are you in pain?" he'd asked yesterday.

"I'm fine," I'd managed.

The memory of his hands on me, his lips against my skin, the heat of his body pressed against me in the forest. It all haunted me like a fever dream. But we didn't talk about it. We don't talk about it. We don't acknowledge how the air crackles when we share space.

Instead, we dance around each other in this sprawling mansion, maintaining a careful distance. At meals, we sit at opposite ends of the table. Whenever anyone visits, we stand on different sides of the room.

The worst part? I can't tell if this distance is killing him like it is killing me.

His face remains an impassive mask, those molten brown eyes giving away nothing.

The only tell is the way his jaw would clench when our eyes accidentally meet, or how his fingers would curl into fists when we pass each other in the hallway.

I roll over in bed, punching my pillow in frustration. The display on the wall clock showing 3:47 AM. Another sleepless night, thoughts of him keeping me awake. My fingers absently trace the burn mark on my hip, a reminder of why I am here in the first place.

A responsibility.

Then again, his actions make no sense. If I'm just his responsibility, why on earth would he look after me like he has these past few days?

My fingers drift from the burn mark as I remember that first night, after the bear.

Angelo had carried me to the bathroom like I weighed nothing, his movements precise and controlled as he helped me strip to my underwear.

His jaw had tightened, I still remember the exact moment, when he saw for the first time the extent of my injuries.

He'd left me there to shower, but waited outside on the stairs. His steady breathing anchoring me to reality.

Afterwards, he'd guided me to the bed without a word, kneeling before me like I was special to him.

But there was nothing romantic about it.

His touch had been clinical as he applied vitamin E oil to the branded 'N' on my hip, his fingers impossibly gentle against my skin despite their roughness.

The contrast made me shiver. Those same hands that could snap a man's neck, treating me like I might shatter.

He'd left immediately after, his footsteps growing distant as he descended the stairs, their echoes somehow louder than the gunshot in the forest.

But he came back. Every single day since then, three times a day. Morning, noon, and night. Like clockwork, he enters silently, kneels, tends to the burn with that same reverent touch, and leaves without meeting my eyes. A ritual. A duty.

The dedication would almost be sweet if it wasn't so maddening.

Each time, I feel the heat of his hands on my skin, see the focus in his eyes as he works, notice how his breath catches slightly when he brushes against unburned skin.

But he never speaks, never looks up to meet my eyes, never acknowledges the electricity that crackles between us during those brief moments of contact.

I throw off the covers and pad across the cold hardwood floor to the full-length mirror. The dim light from the bedside lamp casts shadows across my skin as I stand there in my black lace underwear, examining what four days of relative peace have done to my body.

My fingers trace the constellation of bruises along my arms. The violent purples and blacks that once mapped my struggles have slowly faded to sickly yellows and greens, like a watercolour painting left out in the rain. They're healing, but the memory of pain lingers beneath my fingertips.

The brand on my hip catches my attention. That cursed 'N' that brought me here. It doesn't sting anymore when I touch it, just pulls tight against my skin like a permanent reminder. The pain's absence should make it feel less real, more like a bad dream I could wake up from. It doesn't.

I twist slightly, examining the fresh tattoo on my ribcage. It still itches where it's healing, the skin raised and tender. The intricate design stares back at me in the mirror, a mark I didn't choose but now wear.

My reflection shows a body mending, but my mind remains trapped in that forest clearing.

The sound of the gunshot still echoes in my ears.

I can still feel the weight of the gun, the instinctive squeeze of the trigger.

The look in Angelo's eyes when he didn't even flinch, like he knew exactly what I would do.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the mirror. "Why haven't you said anything?" I whisper to myself, the words fogging up my reflection.

With a sigh, I pull on a sports bra and compression shorts, then make my way down to Angelo's private gym on the floor below.

The familiar scent of leather and sweat welcomes me as I push open the heavy door.

My hands find a pair of boxing gloves hanging on the wall, the worn leather soft against my fingers.

The heavy bag becomes my silent partner in this pre-dawn hour. Muscle memory takes over. Jab, cross, hook. Each strike flows without thought, precise and measured. My body remembers what my mind tries to forget.

One-two. Pivot. Hook. The bag swings under my assault, chains creaking above. The shock reverberates up my arms, grounding me in the present. Sweat slicks my skin as I find my rhythm.

I sense him before I see him. That prickling awareness that comes with being watched. Angelo stands in the doorway, a silent sentinel. His presence fills the room like smoke, heavy and thick. I don't turn to look, but I feel his eyes tracking every movement.

My strikes grow harder. The bag groans under each hit. Jab-cross-uppercut. My combinations turn vicious, aggressive. My breathing turns ragged, but I push through. Still, he watches. Silent. Waiting.

This has become our new normal. Him lurking in doorways and corners. Calculating. Weighing. Never speaking. The first few times, I told myself I didn't care. That his silence meant nothing.

But my body betrays me. My punches become sharper, more precise when he's there. Each strike a question he won't answer. Each combination is a challenge he won't accept.

The heavy bag swings wildly now, my frustration evident in every brutal hit. Four days of this bullshit. Four days of silence after I put a bullet in the bear's head to save him. The least he could do is say something—anything—instead of this brooding routine.

He leaves without a word, just like he always does.

The days blur together, marked only by his silent visits and my growing frustration. Six days total now. Six days of nothing but the sound of my own thoughts bouncing off the glass windows.

The sharp rhythm of a knife against a cutting board draws me downstairs.

I find Angelo in the kitchen, his back to me as he works at the counter. His movements are controlled, measured, each cut of the knife as precise as a surgeon's. I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe, watching him work.

"Didn't peg you as the cooking type," I say, breaking our carefully crafted silence.

He doesn't look up from his task, but his knife pauses for a fraction of a second. "Didn't peg you as the boxing type."

A smirk tugs at my lips despite myself. Touché.

The scent of fresh herbs fills the air. Basil, oregano, something earthier underneath. My stomach twists, though I'm not sure if it's from hunger or the way his forearms flex as he works.

That's when I notice two things: the distinct lack of meat on his cutting board, and the small silver frame partially hidden behind a whiskey bottle.

The photo shows a young boy, maybe seven or eight, with those familiar molten brown eyes and a gap-toothed smile, proudly displaying a plate of fortune cookies.

I tear my gaze away from the photo. "Where's the meat?"

Finally, he meets my gaze, those dangerous eyes locking onto mine. "I don't eat animals."

I blink, certain I've misheard. "You're a vegetarian?"

Amusement flickers across his face, there and gone like lightning. "Something wrong with that?"

"Don't you like... kill people? Or whatever they do in the Mafia?"

He shrugs, turning back to his chopping. "Doesn't mean I have to eat them."

I wait, watching him as he prepares then plates up our food. Seems like he wants things to go back to what they were like between us these past few days. Not on my watch.

My fingers drift to just beneath my breasts, tracing the outline of the tattoo hidden under my shirt. The question burns on my tongue, demanding release. I draw in a steadying breath.

"Hey, Angelo?" I keep my voice deliberately casual. "Ever heard of Blackriver Kittens?"

The air shifts instantly. Angelo's fork stops halfway to his mouth, a piece of grilled tomato suspended in the air. His stillness is primal, like a wolf catching a scent.

I watch his face, picking apart every tiny movement. The slight clench of his jaw. The way his throat works as he swallows. The way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the fork.

"What is it?" I lean forward, abandoning pretense.

Angelo places his fork down. The soft clink against the plate reverberates in the emptiness between us. Every movement is too precise, too controlled.

His eyes find mine, burning with intensity. "Why do you want to know?" The words come out low, wrapped in warning.

I hesitate, weighing my options. "I don't know," I lie.

He studies me like a puzzle he can't quite solve, his gaze dropping to where my tattoo lies hidden.

The lie hangs between us, obvious and fragile.

Angelo leans back in his chair. The leather protests softly.

"Blackriver Kittens are dancers." His voice is even, but his knuckles betray him, flexing against the table's polished surface.

"Dancers?" There's a chill in the air, making my skin erupt into goosebumps. Or maybe it's my sixth sense, warning me I will not like the answer. "What kind of dancers?"

His expression turns to stone, eyes boring into mine. "Strippers. High-end ones."

"You think…" Acid climbs up my throat. "I was one of them?" The words slip out quietly, like I don't actually want to know.

"No. You weren't." His response is immediate, definitive.

Relief floods my system, but suspicion follows close behind. "How can you be so sure?"

He leans forward, making the table between us feel too small. "Because the ink is fresh, Butterfly. Barely healed." His voice drops, rough like gravel. "And because of the brand. This wasn't your choice. None of it was."

The anger boils in my veins, slow and steady, turning my skin on fire. "The guy you've mentioned before—Nico Nicolosi?" I ask quietly, my voice hard as steel.

His lips curve up, but there's no warmth in the expression. It's a promise of violence. "He's going to regret the day he thought marking you was a good idea."

"You'll make him pay?"

"Yes."

"I want to help."

He doesn't move.

"Angelo, you saw what I did to Antonio. What I did to the bear in the woods. I'm not a delicate butterfly you need to protect. I can fight. I can help."

"Kasia…"

"No." I respond firmly. "I might not remember what was done to me. But I want to see the men responsible bleed. I want to watch them pay for every mark they left on my body."

A corner of his mouth twitches upwards as his eyes turn from dark brown to melted chocolate. "You know what they call me, Butterfly?"

"Savage?" I say, tilting my head to the side.

His smile spreads, lighting up his whole face. It's a little scary and a whole lot exciting.

"Savage," he repeats. "They call me Savage. And do you know what that means?"

My heart pounds against my ribs, but I hold his gaze.

"It means that if you want to see them bleed, if you want to see them suffer—you've come to the right person. They won’t be buried with their names. They won’t be buried with their faces.

Just teeth. That’s all they’ll have left.

Enough for someone, somewhere, to try and match them to who they used to be. That is how I will send them to hell."

My breath catches in my throat.

"Does that scare you, Butterfly?"

I should say yes.

I should fear him.

I should feel repulsed by the way he promises violence, the way his eyes darken when he talks about making them pay. I should feel disgusted, revolted, horrified.

But I don’t.

Because I want to see it.

I want to watch them beg. I want to hear them scream. I want to see Angelo become exactly what they deserve.

"Not in the slightest."

His smirk deepens. "Little liar."