Page 21 of Savage Saint
And just like that, the moment is gone. His arm is gone. The weight of him disappearing as if it was never there at all. One second, I’m wrapped in heat, in safety, in somethingdangerously close to comfort. The next, the bed feels too big, too cold.
Angelo pulls away like I’m something to be discarded, his body going rigid beside me. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t look at me. The space between us stretches wide, an invisible wall slamming back into place.
Something sharp presses against my ribs. Something I don’t want to name.
It was just a moment. Nothing more.
I exhale, my fingers twitching where they rest against the sheets. As if my body hasn’t realised what my mind already knows. That whatever warmth I found in him last night is gone.
Good.
That’s what I should want.
Angelo sits up, his movements stiff, like his own body is betraying him. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers gripping the strands for half a second before dropping to the back of his neck, tension rolling off him in waves. For just a moment, his mask slips.
His jaw tightens, his gaze unreadable. And yet, there’s something there. Something flickering beneath the surface, a crack in the carefully crafted indifference.
Then, like every single commitment-phobe on earth, he smothers it.
“I shouldn’t have stayed.” His voice is gruff, clipped. He still doesn’t look at me.
Whatever fragile thread was left between us snaps with his words.
I exhale slowly, masking the sting, leaning back against the pillows like this entire situation is nothing more than an afterthought.My eyes scan the room automatically, cataloguing details I hadn't noticed in the dark: two exits—the door and a floor-to-ceiling window that opens onto a narrow balcony. Theletter opener on his desk could work as a weapon. And the lamp cord could be useful. I blink, startled by my own thoughts.Where did that come from?
“I shouldn’t have asked you to,” I say, keeping my tone light, like last night hadn’t changed anything.
Because it didn’t.
It can’t.
No matter how safe he made me feel, deep down, I know it’s just an illusion. There’s no such a thing as safety. The marks on my body are a stark reminder of that.
His gaze flicks to me, sharp, like he’s waiting for something. A reaction. An admission. Anything.
I don’t give him one. Instead, I smile sweetly. Fake. Easy. A muscle memory I didn’t know I possessed.
There’s a flicker in his eyes, something dark, unreadable. But then it’s gone, buried under a carefully crafted indifference. He exhales through his nose, his gaze shifting past me, focusing on the world outside the window as he stands up.
The man who held me all night? Gone.
The silence between us is thick, stretching across the room like a live wire.
Shifting under the sheets, I watch him, waiting for the inevitable dismissal.
It comes faster than I expected.
“Get dressed. I’ll make breakfast.” His voice is clipped. Cold. Like the man who took care of me and held me tight is all but a distant memory. His words are a cold shower I needed to wake me up from the fake sense of security. I don’t belong here.
I slide out of bed deliberately slow, stretching just enough to feel the pull in my sore muscles and biting down the wince.
His jaw tics. But he doesn’t look. Instead, he moves to his wardrobe with stiff, measured steps, pulling open a drawer and retrieving a small amber glass bottle. He turns back toward meand holds it out. “Put this on your burn.” His voice is neutral, but the tension in his jaw says otherwise.
Our fingers brush as I take it from him, but he releases it too quickly, like even that brief touch is too much.
I glance down at the label. Vitamin E oil.
A burn. He means the letter N branded onto my skin. I lift my gaze, pinning him with it, daring him to acknowledge what he’s trying so hard to ignore.
