Page 15 of Savage Saint
His back is broad, shoulders taut but not stiff. Everything about him screams restraint, as though he’s a storm bottled up in a man’s body. It’s unnerving how calm he is. Too calm. Like he’s spent his life perfecting the art of control.
The smell of melting butter fills the air, and my stomach betrays me with a low growl. I curse inwardly, but Angelo doesn’t react. He flips the sandwich with an easy flick of his wrist, giving no indication he noticed.
“You don’t strike me as a grilled cheese kind of guy,” I say, beating myself up for speaking at all as soon as the words leave my mouth.
He glances over his shoulder, and for the first time, I see a ghost of something that could almost pass for a smile. “It’s quick and hard to mess up.”
I sip the water, watching as he plates the sandwich and cuts it diagonally. He places it on the counter in front of me, sliding it across the smooth surface.
“Eat,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. It’s not a request.
For a moment, I consider refusing, just to prove I can. But the smell is too enticing, and the ache in my stomach has turned into something gnawing and relentless. I pick up one half of the sandwich, the melted cheese stretching between the pieces.
The first bite is incredible. Warm, salty, and perfectly crisp. It’s better than anything I’ve had in…well, I don’t remember.
“Good?” Angelo asks, leaning casually against the counter as though he isn’t scrutinising my every move.
I nod, reluctant to admit it aloud. “It’s fine.”
“Fine,” he echoes, the word tinged with amusement.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Sure of your culinary skills, I see?”
“I’m sure of many things.” His lips twitch.
“Well, I’m not here for your cooking, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” he replies evenly, his gaze focused on the corner of my lips. “You’re here because you need a safe place to stay. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Safe. The word lands heavily, its meaning foreign. I can’t help but feel like ‘safe’ is just an illusion, a fleeting concept that disappears the second you start to believe in it.
I finish the sandwich in silence, the only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of my plate as I set it down. My eyes drift toward the floor-to-ceiling window, where the faint outlines of the city blur with the ocean behind.
“How long have you lived here?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“Long enough,” he says, his answer as vague as I expected.
“Do you always keep your house this…empty?” I press, testing his patience.
His gaze sharpens. “It’s not empty.”
I raise an eyebrow, gesturing around us. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He straightens, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not every story is written in photographs and trinkets, Butterfly.”
Something about the way he says ‘butterfly’ makes my chest tighten, but I brush it off. He’s good at deflecting, I’ll give him that. Still, his response only reinforces my instincts. He’s hiding something, and whatever it is, it’s buried deep.
But there’s no point in me digging. I look around, biting my lower lip as my shoulders sag on a sigh.
“You’re tired.” Once again, a statement, not a question.
“Not really,” I lie, but he sees right through me.
“You can use the bedroom upstairs.”
“Your room?” I clarify.
He nods.
