Page 49 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

ANGELO

I sit at the far end of the private jet, watching Kasia as she stares out the window. The woman who melted in my arms last night is gone. In her place sits someone harder, colder—a weapon honed to lethal perfection.

The papers spread in front of her tell a story in cold, clinical terms. Guard rotations.

Security protocols. Escape routes. Her handwriting is sharp and precise, betraying nothing of the woman who trembled beneath my touch mere hours ago.

Notes appear in the margins; Polish, Italian, and languages I don't recognise.

She switches between them effortlessly, probably not even aware she's doing it.

The Red Widow.

I've heard the whispers for years. An assassin who moves like a ghost. A woman who can seduce information from the most guarded men before slitting their throats. A killer who leaves no trace except bodies and whispered legends.

And now she sits across from me, her finger tracing the outline of Jerzy's compound for the tenth time.

"You've memorised it already," I say.

She doesn't look up. "There's always something you miss. A detail. A shadow. A blind spot in the security cameras."

"We've been over this plan a dozen times."

"And we'll go over it a dozen more." Her voice is flat, emotionless. Professional.

I know this version of her. I've seen it in myself, in the mirror, when I'm preparing to do what needs to be done. The cold calculation. The compartmentalisation. The shutting down of everything human.

It's necessary. It's how we survive.

But it fucking terrifies me to see it in her.

I've never been afraid before. Not when I had a gun pressed to my temple. Not when I was bleeding out in the back of Dante's car. Not when I faced men twice my size with nothing but my fists.

But I'm afraid now. For her.

"You're staring," she says without looking up. Her voice carries an edge I haven't heard before. The accent is slightly more pronounced, like her old self is bleeding through.

I don't deny it. I've been watching her transform since we boarded the jet, the softness I'd grown accustomed to hardening into something lethal and precise. The woman who'd curled against me in bed last night has disappeared behind a mask of cold efficiency.

"You're different," I observe. She finally meets my eyes, and something flickers in her gaze. Uncertainty, maybe fear.

Her fingers still on the papers, the building schematics momentarily forgotten. The cabin feels smaller suddenly, charged with an energy I can't quite name. Not quite tension, not quite desire. Something in between.

"This is who I am," she says softly. "Who I was trained to be." Her hands still on the papers. "If you want to back out—"

I'm across the cabin before she can finish, pulling her to her feet. "I told you, Butterfly. You're mine. All of you. The weapon, the woman, whatever comes next."

Her eyes widen, searching my face for deception. "I've killed people, Angelo. Dozens. I've seduced men to get close enough to slit their throats. I've poisoned drinks and disappeared into crowds. I've—"

"And you think I haven't?" My grip tightens on her arms. "You think my hands are any cleaner than yours?"

"It's different," she insists, trying to pull away. "You did it for family. For loyalty. I did it because I was programmed to. Because I didn't know how to say no."

I cup her face, forcing her to look at me. "Listen to me. The past is written. We can't change it. But this—" I gesture between us, "—this is ours. Our choice. Our future."

"What if there is no future?" Her voice drops to a whisper. "What if we don't make it out?"

"Then we burn together." The words come easily, truthfully. "But Jerzy dies first."

Something shifts in her expression, a softening around her eyes even as her spine straightens with resolve. The Red Widow and my Butterfly, existing in the same body, both parts of the woman I've come to—

I don't finish the thought, even in my head. Some words are too dangerous to acknowledge, even silently.

Instead, I kiss her, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my lips against hers. She responds immediately, her body melting against mine despite her hands gripping my shoulders with the strength of a fighter.

The kiss is hard and desperate. There's something final in the way her hands clutch my shirt, like she's trying to memorise the feeling. I grip her waist, pulling her closer until there's not a breath of space between us. Her mouth opens under mine, hot and demanding.

"If we die tomorrow," she whispers against my lips, "I want this to be what I remember in my last moments."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I've never feared death—not my own, at least. But the thought of her gone, extinguished from this world, makes something primal and terrified rise in my chest.

"We're not dying," I growl, but I kiss her harder anyway, pouring everything I can't say into it.

We undress each other slowly, deliberately.

There's no one else on the jet except for the pilot, so I'm not worried about being walked in on.

Each touch feels weighted with meaning. I trace the curve of her collarbone, the slope of her breast, the dip of her waist like I'm committing her to memory.

My fingers find the brand on her hip, and I press my lips to it, reclaiming it. Reclaiming her.

Her hands aren't idle. They explore my chest, my shoulders, my back. She traces each scar like she's reading my history through my skin. When she reaches the waistband of my trousers, her fingers hesitate.

"I want to taste you," she says, her voice steady despite the flush spreading across her cheeks.

Before I can respond, she's sinking to her knees, her eyes never leaving mine as she undoes my belt with practiced ease. The sight of her like this—proud, powerful, and completely in control even on her knees—makes my cock throb painfully against the confines of my underwear.

She tugs my trousers and boxers down in one smooth motion, and I kick them aside. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes me in, and a small, satisfied smile plays at the corner of her lips.

"Gorgeous," she murmurs, wrapping her hand around the base of my cock.

The first touch of her tongue against the head sends electricity up my spine.

She licks a slow, deliberate stripe from base to tip before taking me into her mouth, her tongue tracing the prominent vein that runs along the underside of my shaft.

The wet heat of her is indescribable, silky, warm and perfect, and I have to lock my knees to keep from buckling under the intensity.

The sensation as she sucks on my cock is unreal.

Her mouth is heaven, all soft lips and clever tongue as she establishes a rhythm that threatens to undo me completely.

She starts shallow, working just the head with her lips and tongue, her hand wrapped firmly around the base.

Each time she pulls back, she lets her tongue flick against the sensitive spot just beneath the crown, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my core.

She cups my balls, rolling them gently in her hand while her mouth works its magic.

The dual sensation, the careful massage of her fingers against the sensitive skin while her mouth creates perfect suction, has me groaning low in my throat.

My hands tangle in her strawberry blonde hair, not to guide but simply to ground myself, to have some anchor to reality while she systematically destroys every defence I've ever built.

Her technique is maddening in its precision. She alternates between long, slow strokes that take me deeper into the warmth of her mouth and quick, teasing licks that focus on the most sensitive parts.

"Fuck," I hiss as she hollows her cheeks, creating suction that makes my vision blur at the edges.

She works me with a confidence that would be infuriating if it didn't feel so fucking good. Her hand strokes what her mouth can't reach, twisting slightly on the upstroke in a way that has me seeing stars. She hums around me, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through my body.

Pulling back slightly, she lets my cock slip from her mouth with an obscene pop. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark with desire as she looks up at me. "You like that?" she asks, her voice husky.

"You know I do," I manage, my voice strained.

She smirks, then takes me deeper than before, relaxing her throat until her nose presses against my stomach. The sight of her, lips stretched around my cock, eyes watering slightly but determined, nearly undoes me.

She sets a rhythm that has me teetering on the edge embarrassingly quickly. Each slide of her mouth, each flick of her tongue against the sensitive underside, each gentle squeeze of my balls brings me closer to the brink.

"Wait a fucking minute," I growl, pulling her off my cock with more force than I intended. "I need to taste you."

I haul her to her feet, ignoring her surprised gasp as I flip her upside down.

I lie back on the seats, positioning her so her mouth is level with my cock while I have perfect access to her pussy.

The position leaves her completely exposed to me, and I take a moment to admire the view, her pink, glistening folds, already wet for me.

"Angelo," she breathes, her voice tinged with uncertainty and arousal.

"Get back to my cock, Butterfly," I command, and she obeys immediately, taking me back into her mouth.

I spread her with my fingers, revealing her most intimate parts to my hungry gaze.

She's absolutely fucking beautiful. Pink and swollen with arousal, glistening with her wetness.

Her clit is begging for my attention, practically throbbing under my scrutiny.

I lean forward and taste her with a broad, possessive stroke of my tongue, groaning at the first hit of her flavour.