Page 62 of Savage Saint (Empire of Secrets #2)

He helps me sit up, positioning a mirror so I can see his work.

The infinity symbol is perfect, the lines clean and deliberate.

Nico's 'N' is still visible, but now it's part of something larger.

The vertical line forming the left curve, the diagonal slash extending into the right loop, the harsh angles have been softened into flowing curves that speak of eternity rather than ownership.

"It's perfect," I whisper, tears streaming down my face. "Angelo, it's perfect."

He pulls off his gloves, his hands shaking slightly as he reaches for me. "Now it's ours," he says fiercely. "This mark belongs to us now."

I turn in his arms, careful not to disturb the fresh cuts, and kiss him hard. He tastes like mint and determination, like promises kept and futures planned.

"Your turn," I say against his lips, and for the first time in my life, I feel truly powerful.

Not the manufactured power that comes from training and weapons, but something deeper.

The power to choose. The power to mark someone who has marked me.

The power to make Angelo bleed willingly rather than from violence.

Something primal flashes in his eyes. "You sure?"

Instead of answering, I reach for fresh gloves, pulling them on with steady hands. The latex snaps against my wrists, a sound that makes Angelo's pupils dilate further. For a moment, I'm the one in control, the one with the blade, the one who will decide how deep to cut.

"Your hip," I say, my voice taking on the same clinical tone he used. "Right side, to mirror mine."

Angelo doesn't hesitate. He strips off his shirt and lies on his side, mirroring my earlier position. His body is a work of art, all lean muscle and tattoos and scars that tell stories I'm only beginning to learn. But I'm about to add my own story to his skin.

I clean his hip with the same thoroughness he showed me, marvelling at the trust he's placing in my hands.

This man who controls everything, who trusts no one, is offering himself to me completely.

The antiseptic makes his skin glisten under the lamplight, and I can see his muscles tense in anticipation.

"This might hurt," I warn, echoing his earlier words. The scalpel feels different in my hand than I expected. Heavier, more significant. This isn't just a blade, it's an instrument of transformation.

"I can handle it," he says, and there's something like amusement in his voice, even as his breathing quickens.

The first cut is harder than I thought it would be, not technically, but emotionally.

Making Angelo bleed, even for love, even willingly, goes against every protective instinct I have.

But as the blade parts his skin with that same soft whisper, as blood wells up crimson and warm, I feel something fierce and primitive surge through me.

This is my mark on him. My choice. My power.

"Christ," Angelo breathes, his voice strained but controlled. I can see his knuckles white where they grip the sheets, but he doesn't move, doesn't protest. He trusts me completely.

The second cut is easier, my confidence growing as I create the right curve of the infinity symbol. The scalpel slides through his flesh with smooth ease, and I find myself fascinated by the process. The way his skin parts cleanly, the way blood follows the path I've carved.

"Almost done," I murmur, making the final connecting line. Blood runs down his hip, and I feel an almost overwhelming urge to taste it, to claim this mark completely. "You're doing so well, baby."

When I finish, when I set down the scalpel and clean the blood from his hip, we both stare at our matching marks with something close to awe.

Two infinity symbols, identical in every way.

Mine on the left, his on the right, designed to align perfectly when we come together.

The blood is still fresh, still wet, and something ancient stirs in me at the sight.

"Now we match," Angelo says softly, sitting up to face me. His pupils are dilated with something that's equal parts pain and arousal. "Now we're equal."

"Now we're forever," I add, and he kisses me like I've just given him the world.

But before passion can overtake us completely, Angelo reaches for the medical supplies with steady hands. "Let me take care of you first," he says, and there's something tender in his voice that makes my chest tight.

He cleans my infinity symbol again, his touch gentle but thorough. The saline solution stings, but it's a cleansing sting. He dabs away every trace of blood with fresh gauze, then applies antibiotic ointment with careful fingers.

"Your turn," I say, taking the supplies from him. My hands are steadier now, confident in a way they've never been before. I clean his wound with the same care he showed me, marvelling at how the infinity symbol looks even more perfect now that the blood is gone.

We're both still naked, both still bleeding slowly, both marked with matching symbols that will scar beautifully. But there's something sacred about this moment of care, this tending to each other's wounds before desire takes over.

"Press them together," Angelo says suddenly, his voice rough. "I want to feel our blood mix."

The request sends heat spiralling through me. I shift closer, aligning our hips so that our fresh infinity symbols press together. The sensation is overwhelming. Part pain, part pleasure, completely primal. Our blood mingles between us, warm and slick, creating a bond that goes deeper than skin.

"Feel that?" Angelo whispers, pressing closer. "Our blood mixing. Our marks touching. You're mine and I'm yours."

"Mine," I breathe, and then his mouth is on mine, desperate and claiming.

The kiss becomes immediately heated, all the adrenaline and emotion and raw intimacy of what we've just done crystallising into burning need.

I can taste the metallic tang of blood on his lips—my blood, his blood, our blood mingling together.

The antiseptic smell should be sterile, cold, but mixed with his natural musk and the scent of our arousal, it becomes something intoxicating.

"Fuck," Angelo breathes against my mouth, his hands tangling in my hair. "Do you know what you've done to me? What seeing you bleed for me, mark me, does to me?"

Before I can answer, his mouth is on my throat, teeth scraping over my pulse point. I arch into him, a moan escaping as he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. Another mark. As if the infinity symbol isn't enough, he needs to claim every inch of me.

"I need to taste you," he growls, his voice rough with want. "Need to have my mouth on you while our blood is still warm on my skin."

Heat floods between my legs at his words, at the raw hunger in his voice. "Yes," I breathe, already reaching for him. "Please, Angelo. I need—"

"I know what you need, Butterfly." His hands are everywhere. My breasts, my waist, the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. "I'm going to take care of you. Going to make you come so hard you forget everything but my name."

He guides me onto my back, careful of our fresh wounds, but there's nothing gentle about the way he looks at me. His eyes are predatory, possessive, drinking in every inch of my naked body like he's never seen it before.

"So bloody beautiful," he murmurs, his hands tracing the curves of my body with reverent fingers. "And marked. Mine." His thumb brushes dangerously close to my fresh infinity symbol, and I hiss at the overwhelming sensation.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, but there's something wicked in his voice that tells me he knows exactly what that mixture of pain and pleasure is doing to me.

"Yes," I gasp, my back arching as he trails his fingers lower. "But I like it. I like knowing you marked me, claimed me."

"Good," he says, settling between my thighs with predatory grace. "Because I'm not done marking you yet."

His mouth is on me without warning, tongue sliding through my folds with devastating precision. I cry out, my hands fisting in the sheets as he works me with single-minded focus. He knows my body so well now, knows exactly how to make me fall apart.

"Angelo," I moan, my hips bucking against his mouth. "Oh God, yes."

He hums against me, the vibration sending shockwaves through my system. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open for him as he devours me like a man starved. When he slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right, I nearly come apart immediately.

"Not yet," he commands, pulling back just enough to speak. "I want you desperate for me. Want you begging."

"I am begging," I pant, trying to grind against his mouth. "Please, I need—"

"What do you need?" His breath is hot against my core, his fingers still moving inside me but not enough, never enough.

"You," I gasp. "All of you. I need you to fuck me, Angelo. Please."

Something savage flashes in his eyes. "Since you asked so nicely."

He pulls his fingers out slowly, deliberately, and I whimper at the loss. But then he's crawling up my body, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that tastes like sex and possession.

"Taste yourself on my tongue," he commands against my lips. "Taste how fucking perfect you are."

I do, moaning into his mouth as he deepens the kiss. His cock is hard against my thigh, thick and hot and ready, and I reach down to wrap my fingers around him. He groans into my mouth, his hips bucking at my touch.

"Careful, Butterfly," he warns, his voice strained. "I'm barely holding on as it is."

"Then don't," I whisper, pumping him slowly, feeling him throb in my hand. "Don't hold on. Take me. Claim me. Make me yours in every way possible."

That breaks his control. He grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head as he positions himself at my entrance. For a moment, we just stare at each other, breathing hard, the head of his cock pressing against me teasingly.

"I love you," he says, his voice raw with emotion. "More than anything. More than life."