Page 16 of Savage Saint
“Where will you sleep?”
“I don’t sleep much,” he says. I open my mouth to protest, but he interrupts me. “I’ll be fine, Butterfly. Really.”
I stare at him for a moment longer, searching for cracks in his resolve. There are none. Angelo Santoro is an enigma, and it unnerves me. No one helps without expecting something in return.
“Thanks,” I say. But even as I say it, my survival instincts scream at me to stay alert.
The silenceof Angelo’s house isn’t comforting. It’s the kind of quiet that wraps around your throat and tightens, leaving you hyperaware of every sound.
I sit there in the corner of his pristine bedroom, wrapped in his oversized hoodie, staring at the endless coastline beyond the glass. On any other day, I might call it breathtaking. Now, it just feels like a reminder of how isolated I am.
My fingers toy with the hem of the hoodie. His scent clings to the fabric, clean and warm. It lingers the way his presence does, even though he isn’t here.
No one helps without expecting something in return.
I try not to think the worst of him. Try to believe he’s just being kind and not trying to lull me into a false sense of safety. But in my heart, I know appearances lie, and I’m finding it hard to believe him.
I rise from the seat by the window, my feet soundless against the polished wood as I pace the length of the room. My eyes drift to the open layout of the bedroom, once again noting the lack of privacy. Angelo could come in any minute and I’d have nothing to stop him, nowhere to hide or run. My mind calculates all the possible escape routes. The thick forest surrounding the house might provide enough cover to disappear, but then what?The question stops me in my tracks. My shoulders sag as reality crashes over me. Even if I escaped, where would I go? I don’t have a name, a place, or a single memory that tells me who I am.
The thought is suffocating, and I rub at my chest, trying to ease the ache building there.
Eventually, exhaustion wins out. I crawl onto the impossibly soft bed, the dark linens cocooning me as I pull Angelo’s hoodie tighter around myself. The fabric feels like armour, though I know it offers no real protection.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I will sleep to come. But when it does, it isn’t the peaceful reprieve I crave.
The shadows swirl in the recesses of my mind, creeping closer until they consume me. A faceless figure looms in the darkness, towering and unyielding. His voice pierces through the haze, sharp and cold, the accent unmistakably Polish.
“Jeszcze raz!”Again.
The word cracks like a whip, making me flinch. I’m running. My lungs burn, my legs ache, but I don’t stop. I can’t. The world around me is a blur. Trees, concrete walls, the faint shimmer of sweat on my skin.
Then the scene shifts, fractures. Smoke fills my lungs, thick and choking. The training room morphs into a burning house, flames licking up the walls. Through the fire, I see a figure—tall, broad-shouldered. For a moment, it's Angelo, his dark eyes reflecting the flames, his hand reaching for me. But when he speaks, it's not his voice.
"Zakryj oczy." Cover your eyes.It's the same Polish voice. Familiar yet foreign at the same time.
The image warps again. Now it's Dante in the flames, then back to Angelo, then someone else, someone I should remember but can't. Their faces blur together, distorting in the heat, but their eyes remain the same. Dark. Haunted. Burning.
“You’re pathetic!”the voice sneers.“Weak. Worthless. Do it again.”
My knees hit the ground, the rough surface scraping my skin, but I push myself up, gasping for air. My chest heaves, tears sting my eyes, but I don’t dare let them fall. The smoke is everywhere now, and the figures in the flames keep changing, shifting between past and present like a twisted kaleidoscope.
“Don’t cry. Only the strong survive. Do you want to die? Do you want to be nothing?”
“No,”I whisper, my voice trembling.
The memory fragments, shattering into disjointed pieces. The fire roars louder, and through the flames, I see Angelo again, but this time he's younger, different. He's holding something—a gun? A knife? The smoke makes it hard to see, hard to breathe.
Then he's gone again and the man I can't quite make out is back again. His hands are on my shoulders, shaking me. The weight of his disappointment suffocating.
“You’ll never be good enough,”he growls.“But I’ll make you useful.”
I scramble to my feet, desperate to please him, show him that I can be what he wants me to be. I throw a punch, my knuckles connecting with something hard. Pain shoots through my hand, but I grit my teeth and do it again. Until the face I’m punching is unrecognisable.
“Better. Again!”
The fragments shift again, blurring into something else.
The faceless figure stands over me, his expression obscured, but his presence suffocates.
