Page 37 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

His tongue circles my clit, teasing at first, then more insistent. One of his hands leaves my hip, and then I feel his finger sliding inside me, curling upward in a way that makes sparks shoot behind my eyelids.

"God," I gasp, my hips bucking against his mouth.

He adds a second finger, stretching me in the most delicious way while his tongue continues its relentless assault. My thighs start to shake, and I know I'm close already.

Angelo must feel it too, because he pulls back just enough to look up at me. "Not yet, Butterfly," he says, his voice rough.

He slows his fingers, drawing out each thrust while his tongue flattens against me, applying just enough pressure to keep me on edge without pushing me over.

"Please," I whimper, my pride long forgotten.

"You taste like fucking heaven," he groans against me. "Now that I've tasted you, how am I ever supposed to stop? I could stay here for hours, just listening to those little sounds you make."

As if to prove his point, he adds a third finger and sucks my clit into his mouth. I cry out, my body tensing as the pressure builds inside me.

"That's it, Butterfly. Come for me."

The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, my body convulsing as pleasure tears through me. But Angelo doesn't stop. He works me through it, then immediately starts building me toward another peak, his fingers curling inside me as his tongue traces patterns that make me see stars.

"Angelo," I gasp, my voice breaking. "I can't—"

"You can," he insists, looking up at me with dark eyes. "And you will."

"Don't stop," I beg, my fingers tightening in his hair. "Please don't ever stop."

The second wave crashes through me even harder than the first, my entire body shuddering as stars burst behind my eyes. My legs give out completely, and I collapse forward onto Angelo, my fingers clutching weakly at his shoulders.

"Fuck," I breathe against his neck, my body still pulsing with aftershocks.

He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, cradling me against his chest like I weigh nothing. I should protest, but my limbs feel boneless, and the solid warmth of his body against mine feels too good to fight.

"I've got you," he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple as he starts up the stairs.

Angelo lays me on his bed with surprising gentleness, the sheets cool against my heated skin. For a moment, he just looks at me, his eyes travelling over my body with a mix of hunger and something deeper that makes my chest tight.

He strips off what remains of his clothes and joins me, pulling me against his chest. I can feel him hard against my thigh, but he makes no move to take things further, just holds me close, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin.

"Tell me this is real," he says after a long moment, his voice rough and low.

I look up, startled by the vulnerability in his tone. This isn't the ruthless killer, the man they call Savage. This is just Angelo, raw and open in a way I never expected to see. My Angel.

"As long as you're holding me," I whisper, pressing my palm against his chest, feeling his heart beat steady beneath my touch. The truth of it surprises me. How real this feels, how right, when nothing felt solid for so long.

His arms tighten around me, and I let myself sink into his embrace. There's a strange safety here in this surrender, in letting down the walls I've built so high. With him, I don't have to be strong. Don't have to be anything but what I am.

I slide my hand down his body, feeling the ridges of muscle tense beneath my touch. "What about you?" I ask, my fingers dipping lower.

He catches my wrist gently. "My time will come," he says, pressing a kiss to my palm. "You need to rest."

I want to argue, but exhaustion tugs at me, my body heavy with release and the toll of constant vigilance. "I haven't been sleeping well," I admit reluctantly.

"I know." His thumb brushes across my cheek, tracing the shadows I know must be visible under my eyes. "You've been tossing and turning most nights."

I nod against his chest, not trusting my voice. I don't tell him that my nightmares are my memories coming back. Each more gruesome than the last. I don't tell him that sometimes I wake up convinced I can smell my father's cologne in the darkness.

Instead, I let Angelo pull the blankets over us both, his body curled protectively around mine, like he could shield me from the monsters in my head. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel my muscles truly relax, my breathing slowing to match his.

I wake sometime later, surrounded by the softness of Angelo's sheets.

My mind wanders to a place I've tried to lock away, but the door keeps splintering open. I close my eyes, and suddenly, I'm not here anymore.

I'm in a penthouse suite in Washington. The lights of the city twinkle below like fallen stars. I adjust the silencer on my Beretta with practised ease. My fingers don't tremble. They never do.

The target is a businessman with connections to three different governments. He likes young women. He likes power. Tonight, he'll learn what real power is.

I slip into the bedroom where he sleeps beside his mistress. She's young, maybe twenty. I don't look at her face. Rule number one: don't humanise collateral damage.

The bedroom is all whites and creams. Expensive. Tasteful. The sheets are silk, real silk, not the synthetic stuff. I know because I've felt both against my skin.

My footsteps make no sound on the plush carpet. I stand over him for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall. He's dreaming. He won't wake up.

Two shots. One for him, one for her. Quick. Clean. No suffering. That's one thing I insisted on, even when Jerzy wanted me to make it last.

The blood blooms like roses on the silk sheets. Like a Polish flag. Red on white. Beautiful, in its own twisted way.

I turn to leave, and there's a mirror on the wall. I catch my reflection—sixteen years old, empty eyes, gun still warm in my hand. No expression on my face. Not a hint of remorse.

This is who you are , Jerzy's voice whispers in my ear. My perfect creation. Death in a pretty package.

I blink, and I'm back in Angelo's bedroom, gasping for air. The memory feels so real I can almost smell the metallic tang of blood, the lingering scent of expensive perfume.

My phone is on the nightstand. I grab it, hands shaking now, and search the businessman's name along with "Washington". It takes seconds to find the headlines.

"HORRIFIC DOUBLE MURDER STUNS DIPLOMATIC COMMUNITY"

I drop the phone like it's burned me. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't my imagination trying to fill in the blanks.

I did that. I killed those people. And not just them, there are faces flashing through my mind, all with blank stares, all surrounded by pools of blood.

My stomach twists as I realise the truth.

I wasn't just any assassin; I was feared .

I was a legend in certain circles. The monster parents warned their children about.

I stumble out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before I vomit. I retch until there's nothing left but bile and self-loathing.

When I'm done, I sit on the cold tile floor, back against the wall, knees pulled to my chest. I can't escape this. Can't outrun it. Can't pretend I'm someone else.

There's a soft knock on the wall.

"Butterfly?" Angelo's voice, rough and worried. "You okay?"

I don't answer. Can't answer. If I open my mouth, I might scream, and I don't know if I'll ever stop.

Angelo walks in, in just his boxers, hair mussed like he's been running his hands through it in frustration, eyes alert. He takes one look at me and crouches down.

"What happened?" he asks, not touching me yet. Smart man.

"I remember," I whisper, my voice raw. "I remember what I was."

His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes softens.

"Washington," I continue. "A diplomat and his mistress. On silk sheets. And that wasn't the only one."

Angelo sits beside me on the floor, his shoulder almost but not quite touching mine.

"Kasia—"

"Don't." I cut him off, pushing myself to my feet.

"Don't try to make this better. You can't. I was sixteen when I killed those people.

There was Washington, Moscow, Warsaw… I was sixteen.

Do you know what normal sixteen-year-olds do?

They worry about spots and school dances.

They don't murder people in their sleep. "

I get up and pace the small bathroom area, unable to stay still.

"I'm a monster, Angelo. A machine built to kill. There's no coming back from that. There's no redemption for someone like me."

"Is that what you think I want? To redeem you?"

I stop pacing, facing him. "What else would you want from me?"

He stands, closing the small space between us. "I want you to stop running. To stop hiding from yourself."

"I'm not hiding. I'm seeing clearly for the first time."

"No," he says, his voice hard now. "You're still hiding. Behind this idea that you're somehow worse than anyone else in this fucked-up world."

My eyes narrow. "I killed people, Angelo. Innocent people."

"And you think my hands are clean?" He steps closer. "You think anyone in my family has clean hands? We're all killers here, Butterfly."

"It's different."

"Is it?" He looks at me, really looks at me, and I want to shrink away from what I see in his eyes. Not disgust or horror, but understanding. "You were a child. Trained and conditioned. Just like I was."

"I should have fought harder. Should have refused."

"And if you had, you'd be dead." His hand reaches out, hovering near my cheek but not touching. "You survived. That's not a sin, Kasia. That's strength."

I shake my head, backing away until my spine hits the wall. "You don't understand. I was good at it. I was the best. Part of me liked the power."

"And you think I don't understand that?" He follows, not giving me space to retreat. "You think I don't know what it's like to excel at something terrible? To find a twisted sort of pride in it?"

I slide down the wall until I'm sitting again, suddenly exhausted. "I can't do this, Angelo. I can't be this person anymore. But I don't know how to be anyone else."

He kneels in front of me, finally touching me, his fingers gentle on my knee.

"You don't have to be anyone else. Just be you. Not who they made you, not who you think I want you to be. Just Kasia. Broken bits and all."

I look up at him, this man who kills without remorse, who has built walls around himself so high no one should be able to scale them. But somehow, I've gotten inside. And somehow, he's gotten inside me.

"I don't know if I can separate them," I admit. "The real me and what they made me."

"So don't. Accept all of it. The darkness and the light. The killer and the woman who risks herself to save girls she doesn't know."

My breath catches. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"See good in me when all I can see is blood."

Angelo sits beside me, his arm around my shoulders, drawing me against his side. "Because I've been where you are. Hating what I am. What I've done. But hating yourself doesn't help anyone. It doesn't bring back the dead. It just keeps you from living."

"I don't deserve to live when they don't."

"Maybe not. But you're here anyway. So make it mean something."

The simplicity of his words breaks something in me. A dam I've built to hold back all the pain, all the guilt, all the fear. It bursts, and suddenly I'm sobbing against his chest, ugly, wrenching cries that tear at my throat.

Angelo doesn't shush me or tell me it will be okay. He just holds me, one hand stroking my hair, the other firm around my waist, keeping me anchored when I feel like I might fall apart.

I don't know how long we stay like that. Long enough for my tears to soak his skin. Long enough for the sobs to quiet into hiccups.

"I can't do this alone," I finally whisper against his chest.

His lips press against the top of my head. "You're not alone anymore, Butterfly. You don't ever have to be alone again."

I pull back just enough to look at his face. There's no pity there, no false promises. Just fierce determination.

"You can't fix me," I warn him.

"I'm not trying to fix you. I'm just trying to hold you together while you fix yourself."

Something shifts in my chest, not hope, exactly, but maybe the possibility of hope. The idea that maybe, just maybe, my story isn't finished being written.

"I'm still a killer," I say.

"So am I."

"I'm broken."

"So am I."

I take a shaky breath. "I'm scared."

His arms tighten around me. "So am I, Butterfly. So am I."

In his arms, with my face pressed against the steady beat of his heart, I finally let myself believe that maybe broken things can still be beautiful. Maybe two people can find peace in each other's darkness. Maybe we can heal, not despite our scars, but because of them.

And for now, that's enough.