Page 12 of Savage Saint
“Alessa,” Angelo snaps.
“I’ll let Angelo explain later.”
Exasperated, I look out the window, trying to figure out where the hell we are. Should I be worried that I went from waking up in a hospital with no memory to being in a car with two strangers? Probably, but I am in too much pain and too exhausted to care.
“Where are we?”
“Blackwood,” Alessa replies. “United States.”
“And where are we going?”
“My place,” Angelo replies curtly.
Alessa’s brow raises. “Wouldn’t it be better if we went to—”
“My place.” There’s a finality to his tone as he focuses on the road, his left hand gripping the steering wheel, while his right brushes against the holster on his chest. Every single move he makes radiates control, precision. Something in me stirs, a voice that begs me to ruffle his feathers. See what he’d look like when that control slips and the layers beneath get revealed.
“Fine,” Alessa huffs, crossing her arms.
The rest of the drive goes by in silence, and I try to busy myself with looking out the window and trying to recognise anything I see, sure that a building or a street will jog my memory. But soon the houses are further and further apart until we're driving up a steep winding road and houses change into trees, then trees turn into a thick forest.
Once again, I question my sanity in blindly trusting two strangers who, for all I know, could be taking me to their very own sex dungeon. Not that I’d mind that experience, just maybe not in my current condition.
The car keeps climbing for what feels like hours, but probably isn’t much longer than twenty minutes and just as I think we must be driving up Mount Kilimanjaro, the dense forest gives way to an open expanse. The house looms into view, a stunning juxtaposition to the wilderness around us. It’s a marvel ofmodern architecture, its sleek glass walls reflecting the silver light of the overcast sky and the dark forest that surrounds it. Each level of the house, of which there are three, juts out at sharp, deliberate angles as if it’s been designed specifically for the panoramic view of the world below.
The car rolls to a stop in a circular driveway paved with smooth slate stones. From here, I can see the jagged coastline in the distance, the white foam of waves crashing against the rocks in a steady rhythm. Beyond the coastline, I can just about see the outline of houses covered in a fog—Blackwood, probably—the faint lights flickering like stars. The house itself, built into the edge of the mountain, seems like it could tip forward at any moment, though its design screams of calculated precision, just like its owner.
Angelo cuts the engine, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before. For a moment, no one moves. Alessa breaks the stillness first, muttering something incoherent under her breath as she climbs out of the car.
“You live here?” she asks, her voice dripping with a mix of disbelief and awe. “And I thought Dante’s mansion was spectacular.” She shakes her head as her gaze sweeps over the house and the dramatic view behind it. “You wouldn’t want to swap houses with your brother now, would you?” She grins.
So Angelo and Dante are brothers, not hard to believe, as just by looking at them you can tell they both must have been chiselled from the same spectacular block of gorgeous marble. Although I must admit Angelo is definitely the hotter brother, there’s an aura about him that has your eyes coming back to him. I wonder if Luca is their brother also, he does have similar features.
“Let’s move,” Angelos says curtly, his tone snapping me out of my musings. He steps out of the car and reaches for my door before I even have a chance to fumble with the handle. “Youokay, Butterfly?” he asks, towering over me and extending his hand to help me out. I hesitate for a fraction of a second before placing my hand in his. An electric current rushes between us as our skin touches and we both inhale sharply in unison. Before I can take a step, he leans down and once again lifts me up into his arms, knocking the door behind us close with his hip.
"I bet all the women you bring here love this place," Alessa says, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she takes in the building. "Nothing says 'welcome to my bachelor pad' quite like wall to wall glass, concrete floors and zero personality."
I don't know, I kinda like it. There's beauty here.
Angelo's jaw tightens. "I don't bring women here. I don't bringanyonehere."
"What, never?" Alessa's eyes widen with genuine surprise.
"This is my sanctuary," he growls, shifting me in his arms. His muscles tense beneath me, and I catch the smallest tick in his jaw. "Wasmy sanctuary," he corrects himself, the words coming out like they physically pain him.
“A Santoro through and through, wait until I tell Arrow about this,” she sniggers.
Angelo ignores her as he carries me to the door, but something at the back of my mind starts niggling at me.Santoro. I know the name, or at least it feels like I should. But before I can try to prod my mind further, Angelo starts moving, striding to the door, his grip steady as he carries me. I feel the strength in his arms, the controlled power, and it takes everything in me not to snuggle into him.
“You can put me down,” I hear the lie in my voice. God, please don’t put me down. Hold me close, feed me and tell me I’m pretty—my life would be made.
Angelo ignores me as we reach the front of the house, just as breathtaking as I thought it would be. Smooth, black panels frame the glass walls, and as we approach, I notice the faint glowof hidden lights illuminating the base of the structure. Angelo shifts me slightly in his arms to free one hand and punches in a code on a keypad embedded into the wall. The soft chime of the lock disengaging is the only sound, and the large glass door glides open, like something out of a James Bond movie.
The interior of the house is cold and minimalistic, the stark walls devoid of personality. A wide-open living area stretches before us, its centrepiece a sunken seating area with low, plush couches arranged around a modern fireplace encased in glass. The flames flicker softly, casting long shadows that dance on the polished concrete floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a jaw-dropping view of the coastline and the foggy town below, but the space feels almost cold, as though it’s been designed for appearances rather than comfort.
Angelo doesn’t stop to let me admire the view. “Wait here,” he orders curtly, directing it at Alessa, I presume, as he continues carrying me through the living room. He climbs two flights of stairs, still holding me tight like I weigh nothing. As we reach the top floor, I gasp. The entire level is one open space, dominated by rich, luxurious tones that feel like a stark contrast to the rest of the house. The first thing I notice is the bed, a massive platform draped in dark linens that looks impossibly soft, right in the middle of the room. Perfectly placed to take advantage of the floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch across three walls, offering a panoramic view of the ocean below, the forested mountains, and the foggy town situated on the coast. The remaining wall features a huge walk-in wardrobe, its sliding doors left open to reveal racks of neatly hung suits.
But what truly catches my attention is the bathroom—or the lack of boundaries for it. A freestanding white bathtub sits directly in front of one of the windows. Nearby, a rainfall shower is encased in glass, equally on display. The only thing that offersa smidge of privacy is the frosted glass enclosure that hides the toilet.
