Page 47 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

A n hour later, maps and blueprints cover Angelo's desk. My head spins with intel about Jerzy's compound, security rotations, potential weak points. Angelo's methodical planning reminds me of my mission briefings, but this time, I'm choosing my target instead of being told what to do.

"Thank you," I say softly, watching him mark another potential entry point. "For believing me. For helping me."

Angelo looks up, a dangerous smirk playing at his lips. "You can thank me when that bastard is dead." His voice is low, promising violence, but his eyes... His eyes promise something else entirely.

Heat pools in my belly at that look. We've been sitting close, shoulders brushing as we planned, and suddenly I'm hyper-aware of every point of contact.

"What if I want to thank you now?" The words come out huskier than I intended. Angelo goes very still.

"Dangerous game, Butterfly," he warns, but he's already pushing away from the desk, turning his chair to face me.

I stand, moving between his spread legs. "I'm done playing games." My hands rest on his shoulders as I lean down, bringing my lips close to his ear. "I want you."

Something snaps between us. Our lips crash together, desperate and hungry. He pushes me against the desk, his body caging mine.

But I'm done being caged. With moves that feel like second nature, I push away, spinning the chair and pinning him instead. His eyes darken with surprise and desire.

"Butterfly," he warns, but I silence him with another kiss. My hands find his belt, using it to secure his wrists behind his back.

"You're not the only one with skills," I breathe against his mouth. He tests the restraints, muscles flexing. "Trust me?"

He smiles. "I do."

"I like those words on your lips," I repeat what he said to me when he asked me the same question.

His smile turns wicked as I straddle him, my thighs bracketing his hips. I can feel him hard beneath me, but I'm in no rush. For once in my life, I have power. Not the kind Jerzy forced on me, but power freely given.

"You like being in control," Angelo observes, his voice rough with desire.

"I've never had control," I admit, running my hands down his chest. "Not really. Everything was always Jerzy's choice. Even when I thought I was making decisions, they were ones he'd programmed into me."

Angelo's expression softens. "Take what you need from me, Butterfly."

I lean down to kiss him again, slower this time, savouring the taste of him. My hands work at the buttons of his shirt, exposing the tattooed skin beneath. I trace the patterns with my fingertips, learning him by touch.

"You're beautiful," I murmur against his skin.

He laughs, the sound vibrating against my lips. "That's my line."

I sit back, pulling my own shirt over my head. His eyes darken as he takes me in, his hands straining against the belt.

"Let me touch you," he growls.

I shake my head. "Not yet."

Taking my time, I slowly undress us both, relishing in his increasingly desperate sounds as I tease him with light touches.

I trail kisses down his neck, his chest, enjoying his sharp intake of breath when I drop to my knees. His eyes burn into mine as I undo his trousers. The heat in his gaze makes my skin tingle, a flush spreading across my body as I free him from the confines of his clothing.

"You don't have to—" he starts, but his words cut off in a groan as I take him in my mouth. His hips buck involuntarily, and I place my hands on his thighs to steady him.

I've never felt such power, such control. With Jerzy, everything was about domination, about breaking someone's will. This is different. Angelo's restraint is voluntary, his submission a gift freely given.

I take my time, savouring his reactions, the way his muscles strain against the belt. I suck hard then lick gently, drawing out sounds from him I've never heard before. His breathing grows ragged, his thighs tensing beneath my fingers.

"Butterfly," he groans, the nickname sending a shiver down my spine. "Come here."

I pull back, rising slowly, enjoying the hunger in his eyes as I undress completely. His gaze travels over my body, lingering on the scars that tell my story.

"Untie me," he demands, voice rough with desire.

"Not yet," I whisper, straddling him again.

By the time I sink down onto him, we're both breathless with need.

I gasp at the sensation of fullness, of connection.

His eyes never leave mine as I begin to move, setting a rhythm that has us both panting.

This isn't just sex. It's a promise, a claiming.

With every rise and fall of my hips, I'm choosing him, choosing us, choosing a future I never thought possible.

"Fuck," he hisses, his head falling back. "Kasia..."

I set a slow pace, my hands braced on his chest. His eyes never leave mine, even as pleasure threatens to overwhelm us both. There's something sacred in this connection, something that transcends the physical.

"You're mine," I whisper, the words falling from my lips like a revelation. "And I'm yours."

His response is to surge upward, capturing my mouth in a kiss that steals my breath. The belt gives way under his strength, and suddenly his hands are everywhere. In my hair, on my hips, guiding me, claiming me.

Our pace quickens, driven by a desperate need to be closer, to erase any space between us. I've never felt so present, so alive in my own body. Every sensation is heightened, every touch electric.

He pumps into me like his life depends on it, holding me tight, worshipping my neck. I'm lost in every touch, every sensation, teetering between here and now and a blissful place just within reach.

When release finally claims me, it's with his name on my lips and his arms holding me tight against him. He follows moments later, his body tensing beneath mine.

We stay like that for a long time, tangled together, neither willing to break the spell. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back as our breathing returns to normal.

"I never expected this," I confess, my voice muffled against his chest.

"What? This?" He gestures between us with a smirk.

I shake my head. "Any of it. You. This feeling." I struggle to find the words. "Like I'm... whole. Like I'm finally me."

His arms tighten around me. "You are you. The real you. Not what he made you."

I lift my head to look at him. "How can you be so sure? What if this is just another role I'm playing?"

"Because I know you," he says simply. "The real you. The one who couldn't kill me, even when she remembered she was supposed to. The one who fights to protect others even when she's broken. The one who survived everything that bastard did to her and still has the capacity to feel."

Tears prick at my eyes. "I don't deserve your faith in me."

"It's not about deserving," Angelo says, his voice firm. "It's about choice. And I choose you, Butterfly. All of you, the parts that were made and the parts that were born. The killer and the woman. The weapon and the heart."

He sits up, bringing me with him, his hands cradling my face. "We're the same, you and I. Born in blood, raised in violence. But we get to decide what we become next."

I press my forehead to his, overwhelmed by the gift he's offering me, the chance to be more than my past, more than my programming.

"I choose you too," I whisper. "I choose us."

His smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. "Then that's all that matters."

He lifts me easily, carrying me to the sofa. As he lays me down, his expression turns serious again.

"Tomorrow, we begin," he says. "We find Jerzy. We end him. And then we start our life, whatever we want it to be."

I pull him down beside me, nestling into the safety of his arms. I feel at peace. Not because the danger has passed. It hasn't. Not because I'm forgiven. I'm not sure I ever will be. But because I'm no longer alone in this fight.

"Our life," I repeat, testing the words, finding I like how they taste. "I'd like that."

Angelo pulls me closer, his lips brushing my temple, sending a shiver down my spine. There's a tenderness in his touch that contrasts sharply with the cold indifference he often shows the world.

I feel his fingers gently tracing the scar on my neck.

His fingers, calloused from years of fighting, move with surprising delicacy over the raised skin, a constant reminder of my past battles and the pain I've endured.

His touch is gentle, almost reverent, but his expression is troubled, brows furrowed in thought.

"Does it hurt?" he asks softly, his deep, gravelly voice barely above a whisper. There's a vulnerability in his question, a rare glimpse into the emotions he usually keeps locked away.

I shake my head slightly, my hair rustling against the pillow in a soft whisper. "No. Not when it's dormant," I reply, my voice steady, though the memories it brings are anything but. "The pain comes and goes, but right now, I'm okay."

Angelo's fingers linger, his molten brown eyes, usually so unreadable, now flicker with a mix of concern and curiosity. He seems to be grappling with something internally.

"Tell me about it," he says softly. There's a cautious edge to his words, as if he's unsure how much to probe. "What does it do to you? How does it work?" There's vulnerability in his question, a rare crack in the armour of indifference he so meticulously maintains.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself against the weight of what I'm about to share.

If we're going to Chicago tomorrow, he'll need to understand exactly what could happen when my past catches up with me.

The consequences, the triggers, the moments when my body might betray me without warning.

He deserves to know what he's walking into.