Page 113 of Savage Saint
She doesn't answer, but she doesn't pull away either.
"After," she whispers against my mouth, "I won't be the same." There's a tremor in her voice that breaks something in my chest.
"Then I'll fall in love with whoever you become." The words surprise us both. I didn't mean to say them, but I don't take them back.
She goes still in my arms, her breath catching. For a moment, neither of us moves. The cabin feels impossibly small, the air between us charged with something more than desire. Something neither of us has dared name until now.
"Angelo," she breathes against my throat, her voice raw.
I run my hands through her hair, feeling the silk strands slip through my fingers. "I know," I murmur, though I'm not sure what I'm acknowledging. Her fear? Her past? The weight of what I just admitted?
"No one's ever..." She pulls back slightly, her eyes red-rimmed but fierce. "No one's ever loved me. Not the real me. Not all the broken pieces."
I cup her face, thumbs brushing away tears. "Their loss."
She searches my face like she's looking for the lie, the manipulation. All those years with Jerzy taught her that affection comes with strings, that care is conditional. But I let her look. Let her see everything I've been trying to hide.
"What if I can't love you back?" The question comes out barely audible. "What if Jerzy broke that part of me too?"
My chest constricts, but I don't look away. "Then I'll love you enough for both of us until you remember how."
Fresh tears spill down her cheeks, and she kisses me with a desperation that speaks of endings and beginnings all at once.There's salt on her lips, the taste of sorrow and something that might be hope.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. The papers documenting Jerzy's compound lie forgotten on the floor. Outside the window, clouds drift past like ghosts.
"Whatever happens—" she starts, but I silence her with another kiss.
"Whatever happens," I agree when we part, "we face it together."
She nods, burying her face in my neck, and I feel wetness on my skin. Her shoulders shake silently, and I hold her tighter, knowing this might be the last time I hold this version of her. Tomorrow, we hunt. Tomorrow, everything changes.
37
ANGELO
Iwatch her check the Glock's magazine for the third time, counting rounds that haven't magically disappeared since she last looked. Her movements are automatic, muscle memory from years of training I wish she'd never endured. The safe house feels too small, the walls pressing in with each tick of the clock on the kitchen wall.
She slides the magazine home with a decisive click, then checks the safety. Again.
"You've got them memorised," she says without looking up, but I catch the slight tremor in her voice. She's talking about the blueprints I've been staring at for the past hour, though we both know I could draw Jerzy's compound blindfolded by now.
"Old habits." I fold the papers, tucking them inside my jacket. My own weapons are already secured—two Berettas, a knife in my boot, another at my hip. Tools of a trade I never wanted her to share.
The night air hits us as we step outside. October in Chicago bites with sharp teeth, and she shivers despite the tactical gear. I want to pull her against me, share my warmth, but there's adistance to her now. The Red Widow emerging like a ghost from wherever she's buried her.
My SUV sits in the shadows, black paint swallowing what little light the moon offers. I open her door first, always the passenger side, keeping her on my right where I can shield her if needed.
We pull away from the kerb in silence. The engine purrs beneath us, a familiar rumble that usually calms my nerves. Not tonight. Tonight every shadow could hide one of Jerzy's men. Every passing car could carry death.
Her hand finds mine between the seats. Such a simple gesture, but it grounds me, reminds me why we're doing this. Her other hand grips her gun, and I notice she's removed the safety. Ready. Always ready now that her memories have returned.
My own weapon rests heavy against my thigh, positioned for a quick draw. The weight of it is almost comforting. I've carried death for so long it's become part of me, but seeing her embrace that same darkness makes my chest tight.
Chicago's skyline glitters against the dark sky like broken glass. The city spreads before us, all sharp edges and hidden dangers. Did she spend her childhood in these streets, learned to read their moods and navigate their threats? Do they feel foreign tonight, hostile?
"Do you recognise it?" I ask, watching her profile as she stares out the window. The city lights catch in her eyes, turning them into mirrors.
"Yes," she says quietly. "I remember it all now."
