Page 71 of Broken

“I saved them from their monsters,” she corrects.

“Same difference. Monsters only exist because we let them in.”

“Once they’re in, it’s hard to get them out again. It can be impossible too, depending on how tangled your life is with theirs. If you have a child or if your money is tied up?—”

“I wasn’t arguing,” I appease. “I was just saying... you save them from themselves.”

“And their monsters,” she tacks on stubbornly.

I nod rather than argue. We can agree to disagree on this one. “Were you always this way?”

“I’ve always tried to help, but things got more aggressive when I was seventeen. Before, I just wanted to be a Good Samaritan like they teach you in catechism. But, when I was seventeen, it took over everything. I prioritized helping others over my studies.

“According to the specialists, that’s when the cyst became large enough to impair my brain function.” She makes a scoffing noise. “How is any of what I just said a negative? They’re trying to make it sound like I was deranged or something. As if I made it up?—”

I squeeze her wrist, noting the increase of her pulse as it throbs with her exasperation. “Explain.”

“I was having psych evaluations after the surgery,” she mutters. “They were making me talk about that time. I had to lie in the end. Or they’d never have let me out. They’d have locked me up just to stop me from harming myself.

“That’s how I knew it was meant to be. When Diana found an article that said you were in Rome, I had to come see you.”

“That’s what brought you here?”

“Yes. Not all of your archdioceses would tell me what was going on with you. Some were trickier than others.”

“So the catalyst for you leaving the hospital was me?” I question, aghast at the prospect.

“Yes,” she murmurs, her eyes soft as her gaze drifts over my face. “Don’t you realize, Savio? It’s always been you.”

CHAPTER 22

Savio

Afraid - The Neighbourhood

Her words have me releasing a shaky breath. The responsibility is?—

Before I can complete the thought, she untangles the hold we have on each other’s wrists, reaches for my hand, and with a delicacy that takes me aback, presses a kiss to my palm.

The gesture is so sweet, so tender, I can’t shove her aside. A part of me might want to, but I can’t shut her out, not when her presence is beginning to feel like a gift I don’t deserve.

“Didn’t you ask your friends to explain to them how you saved them?”

“They’re all over the world. It wasn’t like they could come into the hospital. My physicians didn’t believe the emails they sent either. They thought I wrote them.”

Even as I question if that was true, if maybe shehadcreated these friendships, she sighs. “You don’t believe me either.”

“I’m not sure what to believe,” is my honest reply.

“I have wings.”

“If that’s supposed to convince me—” I start, my tone rueful, until for the first time, she concedes her gained territory.

Rolling over, pushing two feet of distance between us so she can lie flat out, she shows them to me.

They’re mostly hidden beneath her camisole, but I can see the ink playing peekaboo.

Of course.

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