Page 13 of Savage Saint
The whole room is stunning, luxurious, but it feels exposed, a type of vulnerability that’s hard to put into words. Like it’s been designed and built to control the view but ended up being controlled by it—the constant scrutiny of the world outside.
Angelo carries me to the bed and sets me down gently, his fingers lingering for a millisecond before he pulls away. “Wait here,” he says firmly, as if he leaves for even a minute I’d run away. He disappears into the walk-in wardrobe, and I hear the soft rustle of hangers as he searches for something.
My fingers curl into the fabric of the duvet beneath me. It’s ridiculously soft, thread-count ten thousand, no doubt, a contrast to the man who walks out of the wardrobe, holding a neatly folded stack of clothes. He sets them beside me. Grey sweatpants, a white T-shirt, and a Harvard hoodie that looks worn in.
“These should fit,” he says, his tone softer than before. “Bathroom’s over there,” he gestures toward the open area. “Take a shower or whatever, if you want to,” he mumbles.
“Thank you.” I place my hand over his.
“Right.” He clears his throat. “I’ll give you some privacy.” He takes a step back, then another before turning around and hastily making his way out of the bedroom, leaving me alone. Taking the clothes Angelo has left me, I wander over to the 'bathroom', clutching the bundle tightly against my chest. The openness of the space makes my skin prickle. There’s no door to close, no barrier between me and anyone who decides to come in. I guess I’ll just have to trust Angelo isn’t a peeping Tom.
Glancing over my shoulder, ensuring I’m alone, I take the paper scrubs off, then turn the shower on, giving it a minute to warm up. Once the steam starts to rise, I take a step in and let the hot water cascade over my battered body. It stings as it hitsmy skin, the heat making every bruise and scrape inflame and I have to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out. The pain is grounding, reminding me I’m a survivor. I’m still alive.
I watch as grime and blood disappear down the drain in a small whirlpool, washing away some of the reminders of what I have endured. With steam fogging up the glass, I finally feel like, despite being fully exposed to the panoramic view outside, I have a semblance of privacy, while also experiencing the beauty beyond the windows.
The scent of sandalwood and something crisp, like cedar, fills the air as I reach for the bar of soap, relaxing my tense muscles for the first time since I woke up. As the grime melts away, the woman in the glass shower reflection begins to look more like a person and less like a victim. My hair, now free from dirt and sweat, shines a strawberry blonde under the light. The sight slightly more familiar but still just out of reach.
The cuts on my hip and the burn of the brands scream against the soothing sensation of the water, but I ignore them, letting the heat ease the tension until finally, I decide to turn off the water and step out. The cool air bites at my skin, and I grab a towel from a nearby rack and press it against my face before wrapping it around my hair, twisting it up. I glance at the mirror again as I dry off. My reflection is still alien, a stranger staring back with pale blue eyes, but at least I don’t feel like a walking corpse anymore.
Slipping into Angelo’s clothes, I pull on the grey sweatpants first, the soft fabric hugging my hips. The white T-shirt hangs loose and low, the faintest trace of his scent clinging to it, clean, masculine, and a little addictive. Lastly, I tug the Harvard hoodie over my head. It’s enormous swallowing me whole, the oversized sleeves brushing my fingertips, but the warmth is comforting. I let out a shaky breath, catching my reflection one last time. The bruises are still there, as are the burns and scars. But for thefirst time since I woke up, I don’t feel entirely helpless. Instead, there’s a flicker of something else... Hope. Determination. Maybe both.
I make my way downstairs, the polished wood cool beneath my feet. Halfway down, a gasp escapes me at the sight of the state-of-the-art gym sprawling across the second floor, gleaming with more equipment than a professional facility. Faint voices drift up from below, pulling me from my awe.
Who the hell is Angelo? My gaze drifts to the gym again. A house with a gym and a bedroom that spans an entire floor? This isn’t normal.
With a deep breath, I follow the sound of voices, my footsteps barely audible. Descending the last set of stairs, the open living area comes into view.
Alessa is perched on one of the sunken couches, her legs crossed as she talks on the phone, her gestures animated. Across the room, Angelo stands near the glass fireplace, his arms crossed, staring out at the world behind the floor-to-ceiling windows. Even from here, the tension radiating from him is palpable, a coiled energy that seems ready to snap. Like a snake waiting to strike.
I hesitate for a moment, unsure of how to interrupt, when the door swings open, startling me into the alcove beneath the stairs.
My heart beats out of my chest, the sound drowning out everything else as I watch Dante and Luca stride in.
“Baby!” Alessa’s phone clatters to the table as she jumps up and runs to Dante, throwing herself into his arms. He catches her effortlessly, his lips crashing against hers without hesitation.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” Dante murmurs against her lips, his arms roaming her body, checking for injuries like the world might end if there’s even a scratch on her.
“She’s fine,” Angelo grumbles, his tone sharp as he watches the couple. “Not a hair out of place.”
“Where’s the girl?” Luca’s voice cuts through the tension as his gaze sweeps the living room. I shrink further into the shadows.
“Taking a shower,” Angelo answers curtly.
“She can’t stay here,” Dante says, sliding Alessa down his body until her feet touch the ground. He doesn’t let go of her though, keeping her tucked close to his side like she might disappear. “It’s not safe.”
“Like fuck it isn’t,” Angelo snaps, his voice rising.
“It’s only a matter of time before Nico realises we are protecting her. There are more men in my house. Men that can protect her.”
“You know as well as I do that I’m better than ten of your men combined,” Angelo fires back.
“Cocky much?” Luca arches a brow, shaking his head.
“Honest,” Angelo replies, not missing a beat. “She’s safest here, and you know it.”
Dante’s jaw tightens. “We still don’t know who she is or where she came from. She could be anyone, brother. We don’t know anything about her.” His words are cold, slicing through the room.
“Neither does she!” Angelo’s voice thunders. “Try, for one second, to put yourself in her shoes. She woke up, beaten, battered and branded, with no recollection of who she is.”
