Page 31 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

S tepping into Angelo's bathroom, I hesitate at the threshold, my fingers brushing the edge of the doorway like they’re expecting a door that isn’t there. There’s nothing to close. No barrier. Just space. Open and exposed.

Still, I linger, pretending. Pretending I have privacy. I stare at my hands. They're covered in blood, not all of it mine.

The shower starts running before I even remember turning it on. Water beats against the tiled floor, steam rising in lazy curls, but I can't make myself move toward it. My limbs feel disconnected, like they belong to someone else.

He found me.

I strip mechanically, dropping the ruined clothes on the floor. My reflection catches my eye in the massive mirror that spans the wall. For a split second, I don't recognise the woman staring back. Her eyes too empty. Her body too still.

Then I blink, and she's gone. In her place stands a girl, small and skinny, with bruised knees and hollow eyes. My younger self. Blood on her hands too.

"?le," a voice snaps in my memory, harsh and cold. "Postawa jest wszystkim." Wrong. Posture is everything.

I gasp, gripping the edge of the sink as the bathroom falls away.

I'm nine years old again, standing in a bare concrete room. The gun feels heavy in my hands. Too big for my child-sized fingers, but I know better than to complain.

"?okcie!" Elbows.

Jerzy barks, circling me like a shark. His boots click against the floor as he moves. Click, click, click. "Shoulders down."

When I don't adjust quickly enough, his hand cracks across my face. The sting brings tears to my eyes, but I blink them back. Tears mean weakness. Weakness means punishment.

"Again," he says, this time in English. He always switches between languages mid-lesson, expecting me to keep up.

I reset my stance, gun aimed at the paper target. A human silhouette, head and heart marked in red.

His large hand grips my shoulder, forcing it down. "Like this."

My bathroom comes back into focus, water still running, mirror now fogged. I'm shaking.

I force myself under the scalding spray, grabbing soap and scrubbing at my skin until it's raw. But the blood won't come off my hands. I scrub harder, my nails digging into my palms.

Another memory hits me, and I'm drowning in it before I can fight back.

" Jeszcze raz. Szybciej ." Again. Faster.

"No mercy." Jerzy's voice echoes in the training room, bouncing off concrete walls as I slam my opponent to the ground.

The boy is older than me, stronger, but slower. His eyes widen in fear as I pin him, face scrunching in pain as I press my fingers against the open wounds I inflicted. We both know what's expected. What happens to the loser.

"Finish it," Jerzy says coldly from the edge of the mat.

I hesitate, just for a second. The boy's eyes plead with me.

"Kasia." My name becomes a warning in Jerzy's mouth.

My hands move before I can stop them. A quick, practised twist. The crack of bone. The boy goes limp beneath me.

Blood pools on the training mat. My hands, covered. Always covered.

They were all dead. All the children who trained with me. Some by my hand, some by others. None of us got attached. We couldn't afford to.

"Mój ma?y wilczek," Jerzy says, his voice almost proud as he strokes my hair. "Nauczy?em ci? dobrze."

My little wolf. I've taught you well.

"Dzi?kuj?, tato," I whisper, forcing gratitude I don't feel.

The slap comes without warning, snapping my head to the side.

"In here, you don't call me that," he hisses, fingers digging into my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Yes, sir," I correct myself, voice steady despite the pain.

His expression softens into something like affection, though it never reaches his eyes. He runs his thumb along my cheek where he'd struck me.

"Z?bki i pazurki takie ostre," he murmurs. Teeth and claws so sharp.

I return to myself on the shower floor, knees pulled to my chest, water running cold over my back. I'm rocking slightly, head pressed against the tile.

My left hand is bloodied again, but this time it's by my own doing. I've dug my nails so deep into my palm that I've broken skin.

I'm not that little girl anymore. But I'm not free of her either.

"Butterfly?" I flinch at the sound of his voice, sharp but distant.

"You okay in there?" Angelo's voice drifts through the room, less commanding than usual. There's a hint of something else. Worry, maybe?

"Fine," I call back, trying to make the word sound solid. Whole. I fail.

"You've been in there almost an hour." His voice drops lower. Softer. "Just making sure you haven't drowned."

An hour? The water has long turned cold. I hadn't noticed, lost in memories that aren't quite mine. Or are they? I can't tell anymore what's real and what's just smoke in my head. I turn the shower off.

"I'll be out in a minute."

The stairs creak beneath him as he shifts his weight, hesitating. "Take your time. I just—" He stops himself. "I'll be in the kitchen."

His footsteps fade away.

I pull myself out of the shower, cold water dripping down my skin in thin, miserable trails.

Reaching for a plush towel, I wrap it tightly around my body, shivering. The steam is long gone, leaving a sharp chill in the air that raises goosebumps along my arms and legs.

With another towel, I roughly dry my hair, avoiding the mirror entirely.

I don't want to see her. Don't want to see the bruises that are still fading.

Or the haunted look that has surely returned.

The same one I saw the morning I woke up in the hospital bed, with no name, no past. Just silence and pain.

I used to crave answers. Used to ache to know who I was.

But now? I'm no longer so sure I want all the memories back. I wish they stayed buried. Wish I could have lived in the not-knowing a little longer.

My clean clothes are folded neatly on the bed. More kindness from Alessa. Dark jeans, underwear, and a simple grey top. I drop the towel and reach for the underwear first, then the bra.

The fabric slides against my skin and—

—The conference room is cold. Always cold. The walls are grey concrete, and there are no windows. Maps cover one wall, satellite images and blueprints tacked up with military precision. Red pins mark targets. Blue ones mark exits. Green ones mark something else I can't quite remember.

"Osiem tygodni." Eight weeks. Jerzy's voice cuts through the room as he slaps a folder down on the table. "That's how long you'll have."

I'm standing at attention, back straight, eyes forward. There are others in the room, but their faces blur when I try to focus on them.

"Our client has provided extensive intelligence." Jerzy paces, his footsteps echoing. "The target is well-protected but not impenetrable."

The folder opens. Photos spread across the table. I try to see what's in them, but they slip away from my vision like water.

"Kasia." My name is sharp in his mouth. "You will be alone in there."

"Yes, sir." My own voice sounds distant. Hollow.

"No room for error. And remember, they're all marked. No survivors."

No survivors? What kind of mission—

The jeans slip from my fingers, falling to the floor with a soft thud. I blink rapidly, trying to grab hold of the memory before it fades completely.

What mission? What target? I squeeze my eyes shut, concentrating until my head throbs, but all I get are fragments. Maps. Jerzy's cold eyes. A sense of dread in my gut.

"Fuck," I whisper, bending to pick up the jeans. My hands are shaking. This is the third time today a memory has slammed into me out of nowhere, each one hazier than the last. Each one leaving me with more questions than answers.

I step into the jeans, yanking them up my legs. The grey top slides over my head, soft cotton against my skin. I run a brush through my tangled hair, wincing when it catches on knots.

You will be alone in there. That's infiltration. The word bounces around my skull. What was I meant to infiltrate? Who was I working for?

I grip the edge of the bed, staring down at the plush carpet on the floor. There's something important hiding in that memory, something just beyond my reach. The frustration builds in my chest until I want to scream, to break the mirror, to smash through the glass walls of this perfect house.

Instead, I take a deep breath. Then another.

I'm not that person anymore. I can't be. Whatever mission Jerzy had for me, whatever I was supposed to do—it's gone now. Lost along with the rest of my life.

But as I walk around the bedroom, there's a hollow feeling in my stomach that tells me some things don't stay lost forever.

I count my steps as I make my way around the whole bedroom floor, blind to the world beyond the glass.

One, two, three, four, five.

The numbers ground me, keep the panic at bay. For now.

The stairs creak, and I wince, freezing in place. When no sound comes from below, I slip inside the bathroom. I avoid looking at my reflection. Not because I'm scared of what I'll see, but because I'm terrified I'll recognise the person staring back.

The device Angelo took flashes behind my eyes. The wolf etched into its side staring at me like it knows. Mocking. Waiting.

I don't know why he kept it, and I don't want to know. It looks innocent enough. A small metal rectangle with a blinking red light. But just thinking about it makes my throat close up.

Breathe. Just breathe.

My hands shake as I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the memories that have been slipping through the cracks since the attack. I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles going white, as the room starts to spin.

Not now. Please, not now.

But it's like trying to hold back a tsunami with my bare hands. My heart pounds against my ribs, my lungs burning as if I'm breathing fire instead of air. I slide down to the floor, back against the frosted wall of the toilet, knees pulled tight to my chest.

Remember where you are.

Angelo's house. Blackwood. USA.

Remember who you are.

No one. Nothing. Just a blank slate with too many cracks.