Page 19 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

The question hits me like a slap. I blink, momentarily forgetting my fear as confusion takes over. "What do you mean?"

His expression shifts, brows furrowing as uncertainty flickers across his face. But the moment passes quickly, replaced by his earlier coldness.

"Doesn't matter," he grunts, eyes hardening to steel. "Do whatever you need to. But make it quick. We're all getting bored."

My mind spins like a broken compass. What am I supposed to be doing? Is this connected to my past, to the memories that refuse to surface? The gaps in my mind feel like open wounds, but I can't afford to focus on them. Not now.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I say, taking measured steps backwards. Every muscle in my body tight, coiled and ready to spring at a slightest sign of danger.

He moves faster than someone his size should be able to, lunging forward with surprising agility. "You want to play games? Let's play."

I duck under his grabbing hands, muscle memory taking over.

Pivot. My elbow connects with his solar plexus, forcing a grunt from his lips as he stumbles backwards.

A growl rips from my throat as I follow through with a kick to his knee.

The satisfying crunch tells me I hit my mark.

But beneath the adrenaline, I'm screaming inside.

He can't take me. I'll die before I let that happen.

His recovery is too quick. A meaty hand wraps around my wrist in an iron grip. I twist, trying to break free, but he's too strong.

"Still playing hard to get, huh?" His chuckle washes over my face, hot and rancid. "He said you like to be difficult."

Panic rises in my throat, threatening to choke me, but I force it down with practised ease.

My mind races through options, cataloguing every detail of my surroundings like pieces of a deadly puzzle.

The steep incline. The loose dirt beneath my feet.

The way his weight shifts forward telegraphs his next move.

I can't let him see how lost I am, how each word he speaks opens new chasms of questions in my mind.

I let my body go slack, becoming dead weight in his grip.

His fingers loosen for just a fraction of a second, surprise flashing across his face, and that's all I need.

I drop, my knees hitting the ground as my free hand scoops up a fistful of dirt.

In one smooth motion, like I've done this a thousand times before, I'm throwing it straight into his eyes.

He roars, the sound more animal than human, his hands releasing me completely to claw at his face. I scramble backwards, my feet finding purchase on the uneven ground as I turn and put distance between us.

"You little bitch," he snarls, eyes red and streaming as he blinks furiously. "I'm gonna love putting you back in your place."

Ice spreads through my veins at his words.

Back in my place? The phrase echoes in my head, setting off warning bells I don't understand.

But I can't afford to chase that thread now.

Can't let the questions pulling at my mind distract me from survival.

"You can try," I challenge, my voice steady despite the fear and confusion.

His face contorts with rage, all pretence of control abandoned as he launches himself at me. He's bigger, stronger, and right now he's running on pure fury. I plant my feet, ready for his attack. If I'm going down, I'm taking chunks of him with me.

Just as I prepare to dodge his incoming assault, a voice cuts through the air, momentarily startling me. " You don't fucking touch her."

Relief floods through me, followed by something else. Something warm and electric that makes my heart stutter. I turn to see Angelo standing there, his face carved from stone, eyes burning with a fury that makes my attacker's rage look like a child's tantrum.

Everything goes still. Silent. The air. The forest. The birds. Even the brute's heavy breathing quiets. The only thing making the sound is the blood roaring through my veins. Then, just as quickly, the world resumes.

What happens next is so fast, so brutal, that I can barely process it. Angelo moves like liquid violence, closing the distance in a heartbeat. One moment he's standing there, radiating cold fury, the next he's on the brute, fists flying with deadly precision.

His first punch connects with a sickening crunch. The attacker staggers, but Angelo doesn't let up. Each strike is precise, calculated, designed to inflict maximum damage. Every movement flows into the next like a choreographed dance of destruction.

I watch, transfixed, as Angelo systematically takes the man apart. This isn't just fighting. It's art. Terrible, beautiful art. The way he moves, the efficiency of each strike, it's like watching a predator at work.

Blood sprays as Angelo's fist connects with the man's nose. The attacker tries to fight back, but he might as well be swinging at smoke. Angelo weaves and dodges with an almost supernatural grace, his body moving like water around the brute's clumsy attempts at defence.

A particularly vicious blow sends the man crashing to the ground.

Angelo follows, raining down punches with mechanical efficiency.

His knuckles are split, blood—his or the attacker's, I can't tell—staining his hands.

"You. Don't. Fucking. Touch. Her," he chants with every punch, each word punctuated by the sound of flesh meeting flesh.

I should feel horrified. I should look away. But I can't. There's something mesmerising about Angelo like this—raw, unleashed, savage. The controlled man who's been watching over me these past few days is gone, replaced by something primal and dangerous.

The man on the ground has stopped moving, but Angelo doesn't stop. His shoulders heave with each breath, his face spattered with blood. He's lost in the violence, consumed by it. "Never. Ever. Touch. Her. Again," he growls, each word accompanied by another devastating blow.

A chill runs down my spine as I realise this is Savage . This is the man they all fear. And for the first time, I truly understand why. The way he moves, the calculated brutality, the sheer power radiating from him, it's terrifying and awe-inspiring all at once.

Part of me wants to run. But a darker, more primal part feels.

.. safe. Protected. Watching him unleash this violence in my defence awakens something in me I didn't know existed.

Part of me wants to curl up on his lap and press my lips against his neck.

Soak in his warmth. Let his violence wrap around me like a shield.

Angelo's fists are a blur of motion, each impact punctuated by a sickening crack. The man beneath him is barely recognisable now, his face a mess of blood and tissue.

"Angelo!" I call out, my tone soft, trying to break through his haze of violence. He doesn't respond, lost in his rage, continuing his brutal assault.

I take a step forward, then another. The air around Angelo feels charged, dangerous. It's like approaching a wild animal. Every instinct is screaming at me to run, but something deeper is pulling me forward.

Another punch lands. The wet, squelching sound makes me flinch. This isn't justice anymore. It's pure vengeance, raw and primal.

"Angelo, stop!" I shout, my voice cutting through the sounds of violence.

His head snaps up, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. His eyes are wild, unfocused, burning with an intensity that both terrifies and captivates me. Blood spatters his face, his knuckles raw and split.

For a heartbeat, I think he might not stop. That he might turn that savage energy on me. My body tenses, ready to run, muscles coiled tight with anticipation.

But then I see it, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. His fingers twitch, hovering over the broken man. He's fighting for control, I realise. Fighting against the monster inside him, trying to cage it back behind walls of restraint.

Without thinking, I close the distance between us. I reach out, my hand trembling, and touch his arm. His skin is hot, slick with sweat and blood, muscles rigid under my fingers.

"It's over," I say softly, holding his gaze. "You can stop now. I'm safe."

For a minute, neither of us moves. We're frozen in this moment of violence and tenderness. I can feel his rapid pulse under my fingertips, matching the frantic beat of my own heart.

Then, slowly, his hands drop to his sides. He exhales, a long, shuddering breath that seems to deflate him, the tension bleeding out of his frame.

"Kasia," he murmurs, my name a rough whisper on his bloodied lips. The sound sends a shiver down my spine, something electric dancing across my skin.

I help him to his feet, acutely aware of how his body sways towards mine. For a brief moment, he leans into me, his forehead resting against mine. I can smell the copper tang of blood, feel the heat radiating off him.

When he pulls back, his eyes are clear again. The savage is gone, locked away behind walls of control. But now I know it's there, waiting.

My pulse is still racing, but not entirely from fear anymore.

"Did he hurt you?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

I shake my head, unable to find words. Because how do I tell him that the most frightening thing isn't what he did to that man, but how safe I felt watching him do it?

"Good," he growls, glancing at the broken figure on the ground. "He'll never lay his hands on you or anyone else ever again."

Angelo's eyes move over me with an almost manic intensity, his gaze tracking every inch of exposed skin. His hands hover near my arms, not quite touching, like he's afraid of what his blood-stained fingers might do. The frantic energy radiating from him makes my breath catch.

"I'm fine," I assure him, but he continues his visual inspection, jaw clenched tight enough I can see the muscle jumping.

He tries to wipe his hands on his pants, smearing crimson across the expensive fabric. The blood has already begun to dry, staining the creases of his knuckles, marking the spaces between his fingers. A futile attempt to erase the evidence of what he just did. What he did for me.

His movements are sharp, controlled as he pulls out his phone. The screen lights up, smeared with red fingerprints as he dials.

"Dante. Cleanup. Now." His voice is pure gravel, each word precise. But I hear what lies beneath. The storm still raging, barely contained behind his careful control.

I can't help but study his face while he waits for his brother's response.

The rigid set of his jaw, the darkness still swirling in those usually warm brown eyes.

He's both the man who's been caring for me these past days and someone entirely different.

Someone I should fear, but can't bring myself to.

"Let's go home," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

Home . The word feels strange on my tongue, yet somehow right. The glass house, Angelo's fortress, that has become my sanctuary. Or is it my cage? The thought flits through my mind, unwanted but persistent in the vacuum of my missing memories.

Angelo's bloodied hand lifts toward my face, hovering just shy of touching. He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. Without thinking, I lean forward, pressing my cheek against his bruised knuckles.

A shudder runs through his entire body. "Home," he echoes softly. Then, moving faster than I can process, he sweeps me into his arms.

A laugh bubbles up from my chest, surprising both of us with its lightness. "Angelo! You don't have to carry me every time there's a threat."

"Humour me, Butterfly," he murmurs, his breath warm against my hair. The pet name sends an electric current down my spine.

I let myself relax against his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat against my cheek. Something fundamental has shifted between us, a change as dramatic as an earthquake. I remember his savage fury, his words punctuated by violence: You. Don't. Touch. Her .

My own heart skips a beat at the memory.

"Okay," I whisper.