Page 31 of Savage Saint
Antonio sees a lost girl who got lucky. I see a weapon. One that's been carefully forged and honed and left unsheathed.
But I don't know who made her. And that's a bigger problem than Nicolosi nipping at my heels like an excited chihuahua.
The silence stretches, tight as a wire.
Alessa blinks, her mouth opening and closing like she wants to say something but can’t quite find the words. Her gaze flicks from Kasia to Antonio’s red-streaked throat, then back again.
The shopping bags Antonio dropped lie scattered across the marble floor, forgotten in the chaos. The paper rustles as Alessa bends down to gather them, her movements jerky, like her body is still catching up to what her brain just processed.
"What the hell was that?" she whispers, her voice barely more than breath.
She straightens, arms full of bags, and fixes Kasia with a wide-eyed stare. “He was just bringing the clothes I asked him to get for you.”
Kasia hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides. The earlier steel in her stance is gone, replaced by something uncertain, almost exposed.
Her gaze drops, avoiding mine, and she reaches for the bags with careful, measured movements.
"Thanks," she mutters, voice small, like she’s embarrassed she even needs to say it.
Alessa still looks like she wants to say more, but Kasia grips the bags tighter, forcing a weak, uneasy smile.
"I—I should change into something that actually fits me," she adds, almost to herself. Then, before anyone can respond, she turns on her heel and bolts upstairs.
My eyes track her steps, something dark and hungry stirring in my chest. The smirk that's been playing on my lips fades as she disappears from view.
Kasia doesn’t just know how to fight—she’s been wired for it. Her body reacts before her mind does, instincts firing before logic can catch up. I’ve seen it before, in men trained for war, in those who had to become weapons before they understood what it meant to wield one. The ones who don’t hesitate, because hesitation gets you killed. The ones who don’t flinch, because flinching is weakness. In men like me.
She doesn't understand this yet. Grasping at who she thinks she is, who she thinks she's supposed to be.
That hesitation in her voice, the barely there blush on her cheeks, the way she turned and fled—not from me, not from Alessa, but from herself. It wasn’t fear. It was uncertainty. Something inside her is waking up, but she doesn’t trust it yet. Doesn’t trust herself.
And that’s what makes her so fucking enticing.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders, my muscles still tense. My fingers tap against my leg, thoughts unraveling at an unhurried pace. She’s strong, but how much of that strength is conscious? How much is buried so deep it only surfaces when she’s cornered?
Was that a flicker of memory? Or just instinct responding to instinct?
And if I push her, if I test her, will she remember more?
The possibilities are endless, thick and tempting. There’s no reason I should be this interested, no reason I should care what she remembers or doesn’t. But I do.
I wait until Kasia's footsteps fade before turning to Alessa and Antonio. "You should go back to Dante's."
Alessa folds her arms across her chest, her chin lifting in that stubborn way, reminding me why she and my brother are perfect for each other. "You're kicking me out?"
My jaw flexes. I don't need witnesses for what comes next. Don't need their judgement or interference when I figure out exactly what makes my Butterfly tick. "I need to talk to her alone."
Alessa hesitates, her gaze drifting towards the stairs, uncertainty written across her features. She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. But whatever protest she's considering dies on her lips as she catches my expression.
She knows the look. The one my brothers and I are known for. The one that says I won't be swayed on this.
A sigh escapes her as she nods, gathering her bag from the counter. "Fine. But call if—"
"I know."
Antonio doesn't need convincing. His hand still hovers near his throat, fingers tracing the marks Kasia left behind. His pride's taken a bigger hit than his windpipe, and he can't get out of here fast enough.
Watching them leave, I wait until the front door clicks shut before letting my shoulders drop. The house falls silent, save for the distant sound of movement upstairs.
