Page 25 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

I slip through Angelo's house like a ghost, a role I feel I've been playing these last few days.

Each footstep falls silent against the polished floors.

The quiet feels heavy tonight, pressing down on me from all sides, bringing with it memories, or fragments of them anyway, that scatter like glass when I try to grasp them.

Wandering the darkened hallway, I stumble upon a narrow staircase I hadn't noticed before—hidden in plain sight between two massive bookshelves. My curiosity piques as I trace my fingers along the cool metal railing, wondering where it leads.

The door to the roof isn't locked. At this point, I'm not even surprised. Angelo lives alone on a mountain, surrounded by security systems that would make military bases jealous. The only threat here is me, and I've already been allowed inside.

Cool night air hits my face as I step onto the rooftop, discovering yet another hidden treasure in this glass fortress.

The pool glows an eerie blue, rippling slightly in the breeze.

Mountains rise like shadows in the distance, disappearing into the night sky.

For a moment, I just stand there, breathing it in, this momentary freedom.

My eyes widen as I take in the expansive view, my lips parting in silent wonder.

How had I missed this sanctuary during my careful exploration of the house?

This secret spot, perched at the highest point, makes me feel like I'm floating above the world, if only for a fleeting moment.

I'm wearing just a thin white cami and sleep shorts, the ones Alessa brought me, and goosebumps rise on my skin. But I don't go back for a jacket. The cold feels good. Real. I need real tonight.

My eyes fall on a glass cabinet tucked into an outdoor bar setup.

Inside sits an array of bottles, amber and gold liquid catching the low light.

I walk over and open it, fingers trailing across expensive labels before settling on one that looks particularly old.

The cork makes a satisfying pop as I pull it out.

I don't bother with a glass. What's the point? I take a long swig directly from the bottle, wincing as it burns down my throat. It tastes like money and regret, like everything else in this place.

The liquor warms me from the inside out as I walk to the edge of the pool, sitting down to dangle my feet in the heated water. One swig becomes two, becomes three, and soon the sharp edges of my thoughts begin to blur. The scotch doesn't taste like anything to me anymore, just a means to an end.

I lose track of time, staring at the ripples my feet make in the water, watching them spread outward and fade away. The bottle grows lighter in my hand. My thoughts drift to Angelo. To the way he looks at me when he thinks I don't notice. To the forest. To his hands.

The door behind me slams open.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

I don't need to turn around to know it's Angelo. His voice is tight with anger, controlled, but just barely. I take another long swig from the bottle, which I realise is now half empty.

"Having a drink," I say, still not turning around. "Care to join me?"

His footsteps are heavy as he approaches, nothing like the silent predator I know he can be. He's making noise on purpose, making sure I know he's coming.

"That's a sixty-year-old Macallan," he says, standing over me now, his shadow falling across the water. "It's worth more than most people make in a month."

I finally look up at him, taking my time to let my eyes trail from his polished shoes up his tailored suit to his face. His jaw is clenched, eyes dark with anger. He looks like he's just come from a business meeting or a hit. With Angelo, it could be either.

"Good thing I'm not most people, then." I raise the bottle in a mock toast and take another sip, maintaining eye contact the whole time.

"Give me the bottle, Kasia." His voice drops dangerously low.

"No." The defiance feels good on my tongue, almost as good as the scotch.

"Now." He steps closer.

I stand up, water dripping from my feet onto the stone deck. "Make me."

We stand so close I can smell his cologne, something expensive and dark. His eyes narrow as they take in my thin cami, my bare legs, the bottle clutched in my hand.

"You're drunk," he says, like it's an accusation.

"Not drunk enough." I take another sip, and some of it spills, running down my arm in a thin rivulet. Without breaking eye contact, I slowly lift my arm and lick the scotch off my skin, watching as his pupils dilate, swallowing the brown of his eyes.

His breath catches, just slightly. Anyone else might have missed it.

I don't.

"You shouldn't waste good scotch," he says, his voice rougher now.

"Oh? Is that what I'm doing?" I smile, taking a step backwards. Then another. "Wasting it?"

Before he can respond, I turn and leap into the pool, bottle still in hand, hitting the water with a splash spraying it upward. The warm water envelops me, and I come up for air laughing. Truly laughing, for what feels like the first time in forever.

"You're fucking insane," Angelo scoffs, but there's something else in his voice now besides anger.

I push wet hair from my face, treading water. "Maybe. But I'm having more fun than you are right now."

He stands at the edge of the pool, looking down at me like he can't decide whether to drag me out or walk away. I raise the bottle, which miraculously survived the jump, and take another sip.

"You're ruining your suit just standing there," I tell him.

His eyes haven't left mine. "You think I give a shit about the suit?"

"I think you give a shit about everything. Control. Order. The proper way to drink sixty-year-old scotch." I swim to the edge of the pool, close enough to touch him if I wanted to. "When was the last time you did something just because it felt good?"

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, in one fluid motion, he steps right into the pool—shoes, suit, everything.

The sight is so unexpected I actually gasp. Angelo Santoro, the man known as Savage, standing chest-deep in water in his thousand-dollar suit, looking at me like I'm the most dangerous thing in his world.

"Happy now?" he asks, moving toward me.

I back up, suddenly aware of how little I'm wearing, of how the thin white cami must look soaked through. "Getting there."

He reaches for the bottle, his fingers brushing mine as he takes it. The casual contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the alcohol. He examines the label for a moment, then looks back at me.

"You have no idea what you're drinking, do you?" He moves closer still.

"Nope," I admit. "Just needed something strong."

"Why?" His question catches me off guard. There's genuine curiosity beneath the word.

I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable with his attention. "Sometimes it's too quiet. In my head. Like I'm waiting for something to happen, but I don't know what."

His expression shifts, softens just slightly. He raises the bottle to his lips, but before drinking, he runs his tongue along the rim where my mouth had been. It's a deliberate move, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he drinks deeply, his throat working as he swallows.

My entire body feels too hot despite the water.

"Maybe what you're waiting for is already happening," he says, handing the bottle back.

I take it, our fingers touching again. This time, his linger. "Maybe."

We're close now, too close. The water laps gently between us, the only sound besides our breathing.

His hand moves to my waist beneath the water, and what should feel intrusive feels like something I've been waiting for.

His touch is casual but undeniably possessive, his large hand spanning almost half my torso.

A shiver runs through me that has nothing to do with the temperature.

"Cold?" he asks, though we both know I'm not.

"No," I say, my voice embarrassingly husky.

He takes the bottle again, this time keeping his other hand on my waist. "Open your mouth," he commands softly.

I hesitate, not sure where this is going, but too intrigued to stop it. My lips remain closed, my breath catching as I watch him through lowered lashes.

The hand on my hip moves up my body slowly to cup my jaw, his thumb pressed against my chin.

The touch is firm but gentle, a contradiction like everything else about Angelo.

His fingers apply the slightest pressure, coaxing my mouth open with careful dominance that makes my whole body light up.

I give in, allowing my lips to part under his touch.

He takes another swig from the bottle, but doesn't swallow.

Instead, he brings his face close to mine, his dark eyes holding me captive as he lets the amber liquid pour from his mouth into mine.

The intimacy of the act, his complete control of the moment, has my senses in overdrive, my body aching to feel more than just his fingers against my skin, sends a shiver of desire through my core.

The scotch tastes different now, warmer, more intimate. I swallow, feeling dizzy in a way that's only partly from the alcohol. His face stays close, our breaths mingling. His eyes drop to my lips. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

I can feel the hard press of his erection against my shorts under the water, and I know he must feel how my body is responding to him. My eyes grow heavy, the combination of alcohol and desire making everything seem dreamlike.

His hand is still on my jaw, his thumb now stroking my lower lip. "I want to taste you," he says, voice rough. "Not just the scotch. You."

His face lowers toward mine, and I tilt my head up, anticipating the press of his lips, wanting it more than my next breath. But at the last possible moment, he stops, pulling back just enough that our lips don't touch.

"Go inside," he says, his voice tight with restraint. "Now. Before I do something we'll both regret."

His hand falls away from my face, leaving me cold despite the heated pool. He steps back, putting distance between us, but I can still see the naked want in his eyes, matching the ache building inside me.

"What if I don't want to go?" I challenge, though my voice shakes slightly.

His expression darkens. "Trust me, Butterfly. You don't want to find out."