Page 20 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

A ngelo doesn't put me down when we walk through the front door.

His grip on me tight but surprisingly gentle at the same time as he walks across the ground floor.

The house is quiet, the glass walls insulating us from the sounds of the wilderness outside.

I let my head rest on Angelo's shoulder, watching the sun peek from behind the clouds as the scent of his cologne mixed with blood invades every cell of my body.

I want to move away. Get as far from the smell of blood as possible.

Put space between Angelo and I. But on the other hand I want him to keep holding me, like I'm his lifeline.

Like he's one second away from losing it and I'm the only thing that's keeping him grounded.

Because deep down I know that's why he hasn't put me down yet.

"Angelo."

He stiffens. His nose pressed against my hair as he inhales deeply, readying himself for my next words.

I can't break whatever this is between us.

Can't let him retreat behind his mask when I finally got a glimpse of his vulnerability.

Consciously, I relax against him, muscle by muscle.

It's a weird feeling, giving in and letting someone in. Letting Angelo in. Trusting him.

"Take me upstairs," I say, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. It's not a question. I won't let it be.

Angelo's dark eyes find mine, searching. Something shifts in his expression, a flash of understanding that makes my breath catch. He sees what this is, my choice. Trust freely given.

The air conditioning hits my bare arms as we move, making me more aware of the heat radiating from Angelo's body.

I watch the muscles in his jaw work as he carries me up the stairs, the tension visible beneath his skin.

His whole body thrums with contained rage, but his arms remain steady around me, careful not to jostle or squeeze too tight.

The gentleness in such powerful hands makes something twist in my chest.

When we reach the landing, I make my decision. "The bathroom," I tell him. "I need to clean your wounds."

His eyebrow lifts slightly, the first crack in his rigid expression since we entered the house, but he turns toward the bathroom without argument.

The room feels impossibly bright. Angelo hesitates at the doorway, then reluctantly sets me down on the edge of the marble counter. His movements are stiff, controlled, like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will.

"You should sit," I say, nodding toward the closed toilet lid. When he doesn't move, I add, "Please."

That single word seems to penetrate whatever fog he's in. He lowers himself down, his bloody hands resting on his knees. The crimson is already drying, turning rust-brown against his skin. Some of it isn't his. Most of it isn't his .

I grab a washcloth from the rack and run it under warm water. When I turn back, Angelo has begun mechanically wiping at his own hands with toilet tissue, his movements efficient but unfocused.

"Let me," I say, taking the tissue from his bloodied hands. For a moment, his grip tightens, resisting, before he releases it.

His eyes meet mine, dark and unreadable. "I don't need help."

"I know. Humour me." I throw his earlier words back at him.

"I've had worse."

"I believe you," I reply, kneeling in front of him. "Doesn't mean you have to deal with it alone."

The bathroom falls quiet except for the soft sound of water dripping from the cloth as I wring it out. I take care of his right hand first. The knuckles are split, the skin swollen. Fighting hands. Killing hands. Hands that carried me like I weighed nothing.

"Is this what you do?" I ask, gently wiping away the blood that isn't his. "Clean up other people's messes?"

He doesn't answer immediately. I look up to find him watching me in the mirror across from us, his expression guarded but intense.

"Only the ones worth keeping clean," he finally says, his voice low and rough.

I swallow hard at the implication, focusing on the task at hand.

With each swipe of the cloth, more blood washes away, revealing the man beneath the violence.

I find a small gash on his forearm, another near his collarbone.

Nothing life-threatening, but evidence of the fight that should have been mine.

When I press the cloth against a particularly deep cut on his hand, Angelo winces slightly, a crack in his perfect control. The involuntary reaction somehow makes him more human than anything else I've seen.

"Sorry," I murmur, easing the pressure.

"Don't be," he responds, a shaky exhale escaping him. "Just... not used to this."

I look up. "Someone taking care of you?"

His eyes darken. "Someone seeing the aftermath."

I understand then—the blood, the violence, the clean-up—it's always been his private ritual. I'm witnessing something no one else gets to see: Angelo Santoro putting himself back together.

I continue cleaning methodically, working my way up his arms to his face, where a thin cut runs along his cheekbone. His eyes never leave mine, watching with an intensity that should make me uncomfortable but somehow doesn't.

With the last traces of blood gone, I step back, giving him space. The air feels charged, like we've crossed some invisible line and can't find our way back, not that I would want to.

Exhaustion hits me suddenly, the adrenaline crash making my limbs feel like they're filled with cement.

Despite the sunlight still streaming through the windows, my body seems to have decided it's bedtime.

The events of the day—the attack, the blood, the revelations—have drained something essential from both of us.

I step away from Angelo, tossing the bloodied cloth into the sink. "I need to lie down," I admit, my voice quiet.

His eyes meet mine in the mirror, fatigue etched into the lines around them. For a man who probably sleeps three hours a night by choice, he looks utterly spent. The kind of bone-deep weariness that makes even breathing feel like work.

I don't want to be alone with my thoughts. And judging by the way Angelo's gaze follows me as I move around the room, he doesn't either.

We don't discuss it. Don't need to. He walks behind me, his steps barely audible as I make my way to the bed. His bed. The mattress calls to me like a siren song, promising temporary oblivion from the chaos we've just survived.

Angelo moves to the window, pressing a button that sends electric blinds sliding down, shutting out the midday sun and plunging the room into soft darkness. My jaw drops. How have I not discovered this in the week I've been staying here?

"You should rest, Butterfly," he says, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, watching as he hovers at the threshold.

There's an uncertainty to him now, a hesitation I've never seen before.

Angelo Santoro, deliberating. His hand rests on the doorframe like he's anchoring himself, preparing to leave even as everything in his posture suggests he wants to stay.

"Stay." The word slips out before I can overthink it. Simple. Direct. Everything we're not.

Something in his expression shifts, tension bleeding from his shoulders even as his jaw tightens with resolve. He doesn't respond, but his hand drops from the doorframe. For a moment, I'm scared he'll turn around and walk down the stairs without giving me a second glance.

But once again, he surprises me. Despite all this distance we've been putting between us, he walks towards the bed.

Towards me. With his gaze avoiding mine, he unbuckles his watch and sets it on the nightstand.

The three-foot space he maintains as he moves around the bed to the far side would be comical if it weren't so telling.

The man who carried me through the house like precious cargo now can't bring himself within three feet of me.

He shakes his head slightly, as if clearing away whatever thoughts are plaguing him. Then, still fully clothed, he slides onto the bed beside me. The mattress dips under his weight, and I feel myself gravitating toward the centre.

I lie down, turning away from him, giving him the choice to close the final gap between us or preserve that careful distance. For several heartbeats, there's nothing but the sound of our breathing in the darkened room.

Then his arm slides around my waist, tentative at first, then with more certainty as I relax into his touch. He pulls me against his chest, solid and warm at my back. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat gradually slows, lulling us both down into sleep.

My eyelids grow heavier with each breath. The last thing I register before surrendering to exhaustion is the deepening of Angelo's breathing behind me, his body finally yielding to what it needs most.

I stir slowly, not sure how long we've been asleep.

The room is dark thanks to the electronic blinds, making it impossible to tell if it's still day or if night has fallen.

I stay perfectly still, savouring this moment of peace.

The first real tranquillity I've felt since waking up in that sterile hospital room.

Angelo's scent envelopes me completely, rich sandalwood mixed with something uniquely him, something I couldn't describe if I tried, even though it has become so familiar over the past week.

His warm breath fans steadily against my neck, and the solid weight of his arm draped over my waist anchors me to this moment, to him.

The steady rise and fall of his chest against me is hypnotic, almost meditative.

I must have turned in my sleep at some point because now I'm facing him, close enough to study his sleeping features.

It's strange seeing him like this, all the hard lines of his face softened by sleep, his usual mask of control stripped away.

The perpetual furrow between his brows has smoothed out, and his lips are slightly parted, free from their usual stern set.

He looks almost innocent like this, even though I know that's far from the truth. The hands that held me so gently are the same ones that dealt death mere hours ago. But right now, in this suspended moment between sleep and waking, he's just a man.

Smiling, I shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position without disturbing Angelo.

The mattress moulds perfectly to my body, soft yet supportive in all the right places.

Like everything else in this house, it probably costs more than I've ever made in my life.

Not that I can remember if I even had a job before I found myself in this house.

His arm tightens around my waist in response to my movement. It's an unconscious gesture, purely instinctive—the way his fingers flex against my hip, pulling me closer. For a moment, I let myself sink into the warmth of his embrace, into this false sense of security.

Then it hits me.

A sharp, stabbing pressure builds behind my temples, spreading like poison through my skull. The room begins to tilt sideways, the shadows stretching and warping at impossible angles. My stomach lurches as vertigo takes hold, making the world spin faster and faster.

The steady sound of Angelo's breathing becomes distant, distorted, like I'm hearing it through layers of water. Even my own heartbeat sounds wrong. Too loud, too hollow, echoing strangely in my ears.

My skin grows cold and clammy, goosebumps rising along my arms. His grip on my waist feels like a steel trap closing in, triggering something dark and terrible lurking in the corners of my mind.

The edges of my vision blur, reality bleeding into memory as everything starts to fade. I try to focus on Angelo's face, on the peaceful expression he wears in sleep, but it's too late.