Page 32 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

But the cracks are getting wider, and things are seeping through.

The man in a long coat—Jerzy—tossing a small wooden puzzle box at me.

" Rozwi??." Solve it.

"But—"

"Now, Kasia. You have one minute."

I press the palms against my eyes until spots dance in the darkness. The more I try to push the memories away, the harder they push back.

"You belong to me. My blood runs through your veins. My lessons run through your mind. You exist because I allow it. Remember that."

A sob rips from my throat, and I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle it. I don't want Angelo to hear. I don't want him to see me like this, broken and pathetic. Not after I felt strong, wanted.

But the walls are closing in, the air is getting thinner with each laboured breath. I need to get out. I need space. I need—

I stumble to my feet, desperate to escape the memories, the panic, the walls. But my legs won't carry me far. I make it halfway to the bed before my knees buckle, and I crumple to the floor.

My chest is so tight it hurts. Tears blur my vision as I curl into a ball, trying to make myself as small as possible. Maybe if I'm small enough, invisible enough, the past won't find me.

But it's already found me.

"Steady hands, wilczku." Little wolf. Again. The name lands like a blow. Possessive and sharp, meant to remind me who I am. Who made me. Who I belong to.

The gun feels too big, too heavy.

"Shoot him."

"I can't—"

"You can, and you will. Do you think your enemies will wait while you cry?"

His voice slices through me, as cold as the blade he once made me hold to my own throat.

I don't hear Angelo approaching. Don't register his presence until strong arms scoop me up from the floor.

I should fight. Jerzy taught me to fight.

Taught me to never let myself be lifted.

Touched. Every instinct screams to fight, but I'm too far gone.

I cling to him instead, face buried in his neck, breathing in his scent, trying to anchor myself to the present.

There's no scent of blood, no gun oil. Just warmth and something clean. Real.

He carries me to the bed and lays me gently on the mattress. When he starts to pull away, I grab his shirt, a pathetic whimper escaping my lips.

"Don't—"

"I'm not going anywhere," he murmurs, and for once, there's no edge to his voice. No hardness. Just a quiet promise.

He slides into bed behind me, his body curling around mine, one arm draped over my waist, holding me close. His warmth seeps into my skin, his steady heartbeat against my back a rhythm to focus on.

It should feel suffocating, being held like this. Instead, it feels like the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

"Jerzy," I whisper. The name poisonous on my tongue. "I don't want the memories, Angelo. I can't. I don't want them anymore." A tear escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek.

Angelo goes still behind me, his body tensing, but he doesn't pull away. His arm tightens around my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

"Do monsters deserve to be saved?" My voice is small, broken, barely audible even in the quiet room.

Angelo is silent for a long moment, his breathing the only sound. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, like he's dragging the words up from somewhere deep and painful.

"We're all monsters here," he says quietly. "Some of us just hide it better than others."

His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer against his chest. I should feel trapped, but instead, I feel safe.

"My first kill was when I was twelve," he continues, the words falling into the darkness between us. "Some piece of shit who thought he could steal from my father."

I hold my breath, afraid that if I move or speak, he'll stop. This glimpse into Angelo's past feels like a rare gift, precious and fragile.

"Dante was supposed to do it. It was his test. But he hesitated." There's no judgment in Angelo's voice, just simple facts. "So I took the gun. I didn't hesitate."

"Were you scared?" I whisper.

"No." The word hangs in the air, honest and terrible. "That's what scared me. How easy it was. My father used to call me his perfect little monster ."

I twist in his arms, turning to face him in the darkness. His eyes catch the faint light from the window, glinting like polished stones.

"Mine called me his perfect little wolf. " I bite my lip at the similarity. "Tell me more."

"After that, I became the family problem solver. The enforcer. The killer." His jaw tightens. "Every time it got easier. Every time I sank deeper."

My fingers find his face, tracing the sharp edges of his cheekbones, the stubble on his jaw. He closes his eyes at my touch.

"The darkness..." He pauses, searching for words. "It's not something that happens to you. It's something that's always there, waiting. And once you let it out, you can't put it back."

I know exactly what he means. I've felt that darkness curling inside me, patient and hungry.

"But you protect people," I say. "Your family. Me."

He laughs, a short, bitter sound. "I protect what's mine. That doesn't make me good, Butterfly. It just makes me territorial."

My thumb brushes over his bottom lip. "I think... Maybe it's not about being good or bad. Maybe it's about choices."

Angelo catches my wrist, pressing his lips to my palm. The gesture is unexpectedly tender from a man who just admitted to being a killer.

"I chose this life," he says against my skin. "I embraced what I am. I stopped fighting it a long time ago."

"And what are you?"

"I told you. A monster." The word doesn't sound like self-pity from his lips. It's matter-of-fact. "The savage one. The brother who does what needs to be done. The one who doesn't lose sleep over blood on his hands."

I think about the way he carried me from the container. The way he stood between me and danger, again and again. The way he's holding me now, like I'm something precious.

"Maybe," I whisper, "monsters are just what heroes look like in the dark."

He goes still, his breathing shallow. For a moment, I wonder if I've said too much, crossed some invisible line.

Then his hand cups the back of my neck, bringing our foreheads together. "Don't make me into something I'm not. I've done things that would give you nightmares."

"I already have nightmares."

"Not like these." His voice drops lower. "I've tortured men until they begged for death. I've made examples out of traitors that would turn your stomach. I've burned down buildings with people still inside."

Each confession should repulse me. Should make me pull away. But instead, I find myself drawing closer, as if the darkness in him recognises the darkness in me.

"The things I've done..." He trails off, then starts again. "My brothers, they have lines they won't cross. But me? I crossed them all a long time ago."

I think about the man in the woods, how Angelo beat him without mercy. How I wasn't afraid. I was fascinated.

"Why are you telling me this?" I whisper.

His fingers tighten in my hair. "Because I need you to understand what you're getting into. With me. This thing between us—" He breaks off, struggling with the words. "I'm not built for gentleness, Butterfly. I'm built for war."

I press my palm against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "I'm not afraid of your darkness, Angelo."

"You should be."

"Why?"

He's quiet for so long, I think he might not answer. When he does, his voice is barely a whisper. "Because it wants to swallow you whole."

I close the tiny distance between us, my lips brushing his. "What if I want to be swallowed?"

A groan tears from his throat, half desire, half despair. "Then God help us both."

His kiss is like drowning, deep and consuming and inevitable. There's nothing gentle about it. Nothing restrained. It's hunger and need and raw desperation.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"I can't save you from what I am," he says, his hands framing my face.

"I don't need saving," I tell him. "I need understanding. And maybe... Maybe that's what you need too."

Something shifts in his eyes, a flicker of vulnerability. "No one understands this. What it's like to be made of violence. To see the world as targets and threats."

But I do understand. Each memory that slips back carries with it the weight of what I was. What I am . A weapon. A killer. A monster wearing a woman's skin.

"I think Jerzy made me into a weapon," I say, the words bitter on my tongue. "I was trained to kill without feeling. To obey without question."

His thumb brushes across my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn't know had escaped. The gentle touch is at odds with the blood still drying on his knuckles, with the darkness he's just confessed to me.

"You're not a monster," he says, his voice rough yet somehow soft. The contradiction of Angelo Santoro in four simple words.

I want to believe him. God, I want to. But Jerzy's voice slithers through my mind, cold and cutting.

"Weakness is not tolerated, Kasia. To feel is to fail."

"I'm weak," I say, hating how small I sound. Like that little girl again, trembling as Jerzy circled her, pointing out every flaw, every hesitation.

Angelo's eyes harden, not at me but at whatever he sees crossing my face. His hand slides to cup my jaw, firm enough that I can't look away.

"Far from it. You're my Butterfly."

I blink at him, confused. "Butterflies are weak little insects that only live a day."

The corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile but close.

"Not mine. Mine is a Monarch." His thumb traces my bottom lip, sending a shiver through me that cascades down my spine, awakening every nerve ending in its path.

"Strong. Enduring. Crosses continents just to get where it's meant to be.

" His voice lowers to a whisper, rough like gravel yet somehow tender.

"And it never gives up, not even when the whole world is against it. "

He leans in, forehead brushing mine, our breath mingling in the space between us.

"You ever heard of the Butterfly Effect?" His voice is a murmur, meant only for me, his words vibrating through the minimal space between us. "Tiny changes, massive consequences. A butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil, causing a tornado in Texas. One small movement alters everything."

I shake my head slightly, careful not to dislodge his hand, afraid that if he stops touching me, this moment will shatter.

"One small shift—" He trails off, his molten brown eyes moving over my face like he's committing every freckle, every scar to memory. "You showed up in my life, proving it every day. I knew it the moment I looked into those pale blue eyes of yours."

"Proving what?" My voice cracks on the question, fragile and uncertain.

"That chaos isn't always destructive." His forehead presses more firmly against mine, our shared breath creating a private atmosphere that feels separate from the violence that surrounds our lives.

"Sometimes it creates something worth fighting for.

Sometimes it creates strength where there was none before. "

Another tear slides down my cheek, but this time I don't try to hide it. This man, who calls himself a monster, sees through all my defences, all my carefully constructed walls, the fortress I built around myself to survive Jerzy's cruelty.

"You're that ripple, Butterfly," he murmurs, his calloused fingers impossibly gentle against my skin.

"That tornado. That Monarch that refuses to break, no matter how fierce the storm.

I see your strength even when you can't. You're not weak.

You've survived everything they've thrown at you. And you're still here, still fighting."