Page 20 of The Savage

This can’t be happening. This must be some kind of penance.

‘Wait.’ The voice is etched deeper in power and authority, which is manifested when everyone freezes.

I begged God for a sign. For clarity, for purpose. For punishment, even, if doubt was my sin. I just never thought He’d answer like this.

I twist in their hold. ‘Please! Tell me why you’re doing this! What do you want with me?’

No response.

Air shifts and footsteps move closer. I sense it belongs to the man who just spoke. The one in command.

Through the hood, I barely make out the figure moving towards me. He’s towering but he moves slower, heavier. He leans closer and I feel breath rasping through the hood, a sound strained and uneven.

Wind whistles softly, bringing the scent of leather, bergamot, and the faint bite of petrol and smoke clinging stubbornly to his skin.

My breath stutters. Then⁠—

The hood is ripped away.

Candlelight of one small lantern swinging from a hook in the courtyard flares against a broad-shouldered shadow in black tactical armour.

He’s wearing a balaclava like the others. I blink, then confirm every impression I got. And more.

Yes, he’s tall.

Oh yes, he’s powerful if the livid blaze from his intelligent eyes is anything to go by. And holy heavens, he’s… breathtaking. In a way of fallen angels and men who were never meant to walk among mortals. The very kind of dangerous beauty I was warned to guard my soul against.

But… he’s also unsteady… his stance wavering for a heartbeat as if the very gentle breeze is knocking him off balance.

There’s nothing unsteady about his fixed gaze though. He’s watching me as if I’m a miracle and a plague come to life.

He steps even closer and my eyes struggle to focus.

There’s barely any light to start with and he blocks the lantern with his shoulders, but I watch the silhouette of him reach up.

Yet I gasp when he tears off his mask.

I can’t see his face clearly. But I hear him. A voice I feel before I understand.

He makes a sound. Deep. Rough. Disbelieving.

‘Santa Maria, it’s you,’ he rasps on a breath. A vow. A breaking. ‘At last.’

I freeze.

My lips part, but no sound comes out.

Then he coughs suddenly, a harsh, painful sound, and sags, gripping the side of the courtyard bench to stay upright.

Two soldiers move towards him instinctively.

He snarls – actually snarls – ‘Don’t touch me.’

They stop dead.

I stumble at the ferocity in his voice. Another reaches for me instead, as if to steady me.

His voice explodes like thunder. ‘Don’t. You. Fucking. Touch. Her.’