Page 39 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

"I can't," I gasp, tears of overstimulation gathering at the corners of my eyes. My body feels simultaneously hollow and too full, trembling on the precipice of something that might destroy me completely.

"You fucking can, Butterfly," he commands, the nickname somehow both tender and filthy on his lips.

My body responds instantly to his authority, tingling all over with renewed need.

When his calloused thumb finds my swollen clit and begins rubbing deliberate circles, it takes mere seconds for the third orgasm to build.

When it crashes over me, the world goes black for a moment, pleasure so intense it borders on pain, consuming me entirely.

I scream his name like a prayer and a curse combined, my body convulsing around him as tears stream down my cheeks.

I vaguely register his own release, the way he groans my name against my throat, his body tensing above mine before collapsing.

In that moment of shared vulnerability, I feel something crack open inside me, something I've kept locked away for too long.

We lie tangled together, our breathing gradually syncing. His forehead presses against mine, and in that moment, there's perfect understanding between us. We're both killers. Both broken. Both healing.

For the first time that I can remember, I feel safe in someone's hands.

This. This feeling right here is something I could get used to.

Angelo's arms wrap around me, strong and secure. For just a moment, the world outside doesn't exist. There's just us, our bodies, our breath.

The peace lasts exactly forty-three seconds.

Angelo's phone blasts an obnoxious ringtone from somewhere on the floor, a harsh, intrusive sound that splits our bubble of serenity right down the middle.

"Fuck," Angelo mutters against my neck, his warm breath fanning across my skin. He doesn't move immediately, like he's weighing the consequences of ignoring the call.

The phone rings again, more insistent this time. With a frustrated growl, Angelo untangles himself from me and rolls off the bed in one fluid motion. I watch the muscles in his back flex as he bends to snatch the phone from the floor.

"What?" he barks into the receiver.

I pull the sheet up over my chest, suddenly cold without his body heat. The change in his posture is immediate. Shoulders tensing, jaw hardening. Whatever he's hearing, it's not good news.

"When?" Another pause. "How many?" His voice drops to that dangerous pitch that tells me someone's about to have a very bad day. "I'll be there in twenty."

He hangs up and stands motionless for a beat, his back to me.

"What's happened?" I ask, though part of me doesn't want to know.

He turns, his face a mask of cold fury. "Explosion at the port. Multiple bodies."

My stomach drops. "Nico?"

"Maybe. But that's not all." He runs a hand through his hair. "They're trying to pin sex trafficking on us."

"Who is?" I sit up straighter.

"The Feds. They've been looking for an excuse to come after us for years. Now they think they've got one." He picks up his discarded boxers. "They've had enough, apparently. Arrow thinks they've got someone on the inside feeding them bullshit."

Just like that, reality comes crashing back with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

The warmth we created together evaporates, replaced by the chill of what awaits outside these walls.

I watch as Angelo transforms before my eyes, the man who held me so tenderly moments ago fading away as the warrior takes his place.

"I need to go. Now." He's already pulling on his jeans, movements quick and efficient.

I throw back the covers and slide out of bed. "I'm coming with you."

"No." The word falls between us, hard and unyielding.

"Angelo—"

"This isn't up for debate." He grabs his shirt, yanking it over his head. "It could be a trap."

I want to argue, but I know that look on his face. Fighting him on this would waste time he clearly doesn't have. So I grab my own clothes from the floor, pulling them on with quick jerks.

Angelo moves to his closet, punching in a code on a keypad I didn't know existed.

The back panel slides open, revealing an arsenal that would make a small army jealous.

He selects a handgun, checking the magazine before tucking it into his waistband.

A second one follows, disappearing into an ankle holster.

Then a knife, sliding into a sheath at his belt.

I find myself walking over to him and selecting my own weapons out of habit. Strapping a knife to my thigh and dropping a small blade in my boot. They're not much, but they're better than nothing.

Angelo catches me doing this and hesitates. For a second, I think he might relent and let me come. Instead, he crosses to me in three quick strides, cupping my face in his hands. His kiss is fierce and possessive, stealing my breath.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with something I can't quite name. "I'll take you to Alessa."

"I don't need a babysitter," I start to protest.

"You don't. But she does. Please." The word sounds torn from him. Has Angelo Santoro ever begged for anything in his life? "Be safe. For me."

The naked vulnerability in those words— for me —catches me off guard. I grit my teeth, frustration warring with the knowledge that he needs to focus on the threat, not on worrying about me.

"Fine," I nod, hating how easily I cave when he looks at me like that. "But this isn't over. We still need to talk about—"

"Later," he promises, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. "When I get back."

I watch him finish arming himself, checking weapons with practiced efficiency. His movements are precise, methodical. The Angelo who made me cry out his name is gone, replaced by Savage. The man enemies whisper about in fear.

Yet when he takes my hand to lead me downstairs, his grip is gentle. A reminder that underneath it all, both versions are the same man.

The man I'm starting to care about far too much for my own good.