Page 28 of The Savage

Sweet heaven. He’s beautiful, but in a way that frightens me.

My pulse stutters as I take another step closer. His hand lies palm up on the sheet, fingers curled, the faintest tremor visible beneath the IV line.

I shouldn’t look. I shouldn’t feel. But I do.

I don’t know who this man… this patient who led the charge to steal me from my only home is, but he feels like the shadow from my dreams. The one who stands just beyond the light, the one whose voice I can never quite hear. I’ve seen that mouth curve in laughter. I’ve felt that gaze burn through the darkness of my sleep. I always wake before I can reach him.

And now he’s here. Flesh and blood and breath, lying inches from me.

A wave of dizziness hits and I grip the rail to steady myself.

‘What is this?’ I whisper, mostly to myself. ‘Who are you and why did you bring me here?’

No answer. The soldiers stand impassive by the door, their silhouettes blurred by the low light.

I turn back to the bed, to the man, and realise my lips are moving on their own. Praying. Desperate to anchor myself in something pure before I unravel completely.

‘Guide my path, Father,’ I murmur. ‘Deliver me from temptation. From vanity, the sins of the flesh and the memories of the body.’

But even as I say it, the words tremble, hollow against the pulse hammering in my throat. Because what I feel when I look at him isn’t temptation – it’s trepidation alloyed with deep sadness and marrow-deep fear so visceral it’s almost debilitating.

I sink to my knees beside the bed. My fingers hover above his, not daring to touch because something inside me fears waking him, even weakened as he is. ‘Who are you?’ I whisper again.

The room answers with a slow, steady beep. Then another.

Then the rhythm of the room changes. The fingers of his hand jerk and spasm, as if he’s reaching for… something. His closed eyelids flutter, his eyes rolling… seeking beneath. The bleeps from the machines gather speed.

I freeze.

His eyelids twitch and the line of his mouth tightens. One breath, then another, rough and shallow.

The younger soldier swears softly under her breath. ‘He’s waking up.’

‘Are you sure?’ the other mutters, moving forward. ‘The doctors said he was minutes from snuffing out after overdoing it. He should be heavily sedated.’

But I’m not listening.

Minutes from snuffing it…

My heart lurches and my eyes are fixed on his face, the impossible miracle of it, silently willing him out of danger. The stark determination etched into its smooth, hauntingly beautiful lines.

He stirs again, a low sound catching in his throat. The monitors flare.

The soldiers mutter harder, then I hear their footsteps moving away, most likely to fetch doctors.

My focus doesn’t waver from the man. It can’t. His eyelids continue to flutter, and his chest moves faster.

I feel my own chest match his frantic pace.

Then my heart jolts when he speaks.

One word. Hoarse, raw, but clear enough to slice through every prayer I’ve ever known.

‘Angel.’

I rise and jerk back, heart lurching faster.

The cross of my rosary digs into my palm as I watch his eyes open – dark grey, fevered and unfocused at first.