Page 61 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

KASIA

T he house settles around us in comfortable silence, the sort that only comes after a day spent existing in perfect harmony with another person.

Angelo moves through his bedroom with the fluid grace of a predator, but there's something different tonight.

Something deliberate in the way he arranges items on his dresser, the clinical precision with which he lays out what looks suspiciously like medical supplies.

I watch from the bed, wrapped in one of his shirts that hangs loose on my frame, as he unfolds a sterile cloth and begins placing surgical instruments in neat rows. Scalpels catch the lamplight, throwing sharp glints across the dark wood. Antiseptic. Gauze. Sutures.

"Angelo." My voice cuts through the quiet. "What are you doing?"

His hands still for a moment, broad shoulders tensing beneath the black t-shirt that clings to his frame. When he turns to face me, there's something raw in his expression, something that makes my chest tighten with anticipation.

"I've been thinking about this for weeks," he says, his voice low and rough. "Obsessing over it, really. How to get rid of his mark without destroying you in the process."

My fingers drift unconsciously to my left hip, where Nico's brand sits like a permanent reminder of the mission that brought me here. The 'N' has healed, but it's still raised and angry-looking, a scar that represents everything I was trained to be.

I remember it all now, lying still as the iron seared my flesh, Nicolosi watching from the corner with his cigar. "Make it real," he'd instructed. And I had. I'd endured it willingly, part of the elaborate plan to infiltrate the Santoros. Part of becoming the perfect weapon.

But that's not who I am anymore.

Angelo crosses the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me. His eyes are dark, intense, fixed on my face like he's memorising every detail.

"I researched skin grafts," he continues, his jaw tightening. "Spent hours reading surgical texts, planning procedures. I even thought about cutting a piece from my own hip to cover it completely."

The image hits me like a physical blow. Angelo, methodical and determined, carving into his own flesh to give me his skin. To replace Nico's mark with a piece of himself. My throat constricts with an emotion I can't name.

"But I'd never be able to do the procedure safely alone," he admits, frustration bleeding into his tone. "And I..." His hands clench into fists. "I couldn't bear the thought of anyone else touching you like that. Anyone else seeing you vulnerable, cutting into you, marking you."

I reach for him instinctively, my fingers covering his clenched fist. "Angelo—"

"Then I realised something." His eyes meet mine, and there's something almost desperate in them. "We don't need to erase it completely. We can transform it."

He shifts closer, his hand hovering over my hip but not quite touching. "May I?"

I nod, not trusting my voice. His fingers are gentle as they trace the air just above the brand, careful not to make contact with the sensitive skin.

"See the vertical line here?" His finger follows the left stroke of the 'N', tracing it upward.

"This becomes the left curve of the infinity symbol.

And this diagonal—" He traces the connecting slash that cuts through the middle.

"We extend it outward and curve it back, creating the right loop.

The bottom points connect to complete the symbol. "

My breath catches as I visualise it. The harsh, angular 'N' that has marked me as property, transformed into flowing, eternal curves. An infinity symbol. Forever. Always.

"Because what we have," Angelo's voice drops, "it's forever, Butterfly."

Tears prick at my eyes, but these aren't tears of pain or fear. They're something else entirely. Something that feels like hope, like healing, like the possibility of turning something ugly into something beautiful.

"You want to... cut me?" The words should sound terrifying, but they don't. Not when it's Angelo. Not when I can see the careful planning in his movements, the surgical precision he's inherited from years of medical training.

"Only if you want me to." His hand finds my face, thumb brushing away a tear I didn't realise had fallen. "Only if you trust me to transform his mark into something that belongs to us."

I lean into his touch, closing my eyes. Trust. Such a simple word for something so complicated. But with Angelo, it's not complicated at all. I trust him with my life, with my body, with my heart. I trust him to see me as more than a collection of scars and broken pieces.

"And after?" I ask, opening my eyes to meet his. "What happens after you mark me?"

Something dangerous flickers in his expression. "Then you mark me."

My pulse quickens. "What?"

"The same symbol. Same place, just on the other hip." His voice is rough with want. "I want to match you, Butterfly. I want us to choose each other, claim each other."

The thought sends heat spiralling through me.

Not just receiving his mark, but giving him mine.

Making him bleed for me the way I'll bleed for him.

The idea of holding the scalpel, of having that power over him, makes something fierce and primal stir in my chest. For the first time in my life, I would be the one in control.

The one choosing to mark rather than being marked.

"Yes." The word comes out as barely a breath. "Yes, I want that."

Angelo's eyes darken, pupils dilating with something that's equal parts medical focus and raw desire. He kisses me then, soft and reverent, like he's sealing a promise.

"Go shower," he says against my lips. "Use the antibacterial soap in the cabinet. I need to prepare."

I obey without question, moving through his bathroom area like I'm in a dream. The hot water feels good against my skin, washing away the day, preparing me for whatever comes next. I use the surgical soap he mentioned, the sharp antiseptic scent making this feel more real, more immediate.

When I emerge, wrapped in a towel, the bedroom has been transformed. Angelo has moved his dresser closer to the bed, creating a makeshift surgical station. The instruments are arranged with military-like order, and he's pulled on latex gloves that make his hands look somehow more dangerous.

"Lie down," he says, his voice taking on the clinical tone I've heard when he's treating my other injuries. "On your side, hip exposed."

I drop the towel without ceremony, completely comfortable being naked around him now. His eyes track over my body with familiar hunger, but there's something else there too. Something reverent and possessive and utterly focused.

The bed dips as I settle onto my side, and Angelo adjusts a lamp to cast a bright light over my hip. I feel exposed, vulnerable, but not afraid. Never afraid with him.

"This is going to hurt," he warns, his gloved fingers ghost over my skin. "I could use a local anaesthetic, but..." His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. "I want you to feel it. To choose the pain. To know you're reclaiming this mark yourself."

"I can handle it." And I can. I've handled worse. Much worse.

He nods, reaching for a bottle of antiseptic. "Tell me if you need me to stop."

The first touch of antiseptic is cold, making me hiss softly. Angelo murmurs an apology, his free hand settling on my thigh in comfort. He's thorough in his cleaning, painting my entire hip with the sharp-smelling liquid. The chemical scent mingles with the metallic tang of anxiety in my mouth.

"Ready?" he asks, scalpel poised above my skin. The blade catches the light, gleaming silver and deadly sharp.

I nod, then remember he can't see my face from this angle. "I'm ready."

The first cut is swift and sure, extending the vertical line of the 'N' upward and outward.

The sound is soft but distinct—a whisper of steel parting flesh, followed immediately by the wet warmth of blood welling up.

The pain is keen and clean, different from the searing heat of the original brand. This is chosen pain, deliberate pain.

"Fuck," I breathe, my fingers gripping the sheets. The sensation is more intense than I expected—not just the sting of the cut, but the awareness of my skin opening, of Angelo's blade transforming me.

"Doing so well," he murmurs, his voice soft with concentration. The scalpel moves again, creating the right curve of the infinity symbol by extending and curving the diagonal slash. I can feel the blade's path, the deliberate pressure as it follows the line he's envisioned. "So fucking brave."

Blood trickles down my hip, warm and thick, but Angelo's already there with gauze, dabbing it away gently. The cotton comes away crimson, and there's something primitive about seeing my blood on the white fabric, about knowing Angelo is seeing it too.

"One more cut," he says, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "This connects the loops at the bottom."

The final cut is the most intense, joining the two curves at their base to complete the transformation.

The scalpel slides through my flesh with that same soft whisper, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan.

Not from pain, from something deeper, more primitive.

The knowledge that Angelo is literally rewriting my body, claiming me in the most intimate way possible.

When he sets down the scalpel, I can smell the metallic sweetness of blood mixing with the antiseptic, creating a cocktail that's somehow intoxicating rather than sterile. The infinity symbol burns on my hip, but it's a good burn—a transformative burn.

"There." Angelo's voice is rough with emotion. "Look."