Page 35 of The Savage

‘No, you won’t. Because if I die, my blood with be entirely on those pretty little hands.’

The monitors shrills as if daring her to try. The doctor lifts both hands like he’s calming a brawl. ‘Please. Sister. Stay. Only a little longer, sì?’

Her gaze flicks to the door, to the empty corners where soldiers had been, to the doctor, to me. She sits again. Barely. The chair protests with a whisper.

‘What did the soldiers tell you after I passed out?’ I ask, voice lower now.

‘Only that there was a patient.’ Her throat tightens. ‘I assumed… I assumed prayers would help.’

‘Well, it did. In the past, church was my favourite place.’ I let my eyes drop to her mouth. Then lower, to the racing pulse pushing against her prim collar. My mouth waters with the need to taste her right there.

Fuck, I might just leave the habit on when I do.

But as I look at her, the hands clutching so tightly to the rosary, a different memory scythes through more pleasant ones. ‘Until it wasn’t.’

The colour that flared high on her cheekbones at my unvarnished stare recedes a little. ‘I’ll pray for you. And then I will leave and you will not stop me. I am not who you think.’

‘You’re exactly who I think,’ I say. ‘And I will stop you. With my teeth if I have to.’

The doctor shoots me a look that says please don’t bite the nun. I ignore him.

‘Let’s play things your way, Sister. Tell me what you remember of your farthest memory,’ I say to her.

That earns me a firm head shake. ‘No, Signore. My memories are private. I don’t know who you are or what rights you think you have to them, but I won’t be giving them to you.’

I make a show of settling back into the bed, even as every excruciatingly painful muscle screams in protest. ‘I guess we’re settling in for a long night then, huh, babe? I hope you don’t have any urgent patients waiting on you, Doctor?’

The doctor makes a face, either scandalised by the way I’m addressing Christ’s bride or because he has no chance of escape.

One minute passes. Three. Five.

Her lips purse and she shoots me an irritated glare before contrition arrives. ‘If you must know, I remember God,’ she says promptly, like a Sunday schoolchild with the right answer. ‘I remember the old convent in Northern Sicily.’

My breath stalls. Northern Sicily. Where my brother Rafa came within shockingly close call of locating her sixteen months ago. She was gone by the time he arrived, the old place burned to the ground. Another chess move by fucking Nightowl? ‘Go on.’

‘After that we relocated to Santa Maria delle Nevi. I continued my studies with the sisters. Work. Prayer. The life I chose.’

‘You remember something before that,’ I grit out. ‘You have to.’ It’s impossible that she lost all memory of her family. Her life in New York.

Me, for fuck’s sake!

Her lips part. Nothing comes out. Terror rolls under her skin.

‘I see shadows of faces, sometimes,’ she manages at last. ‘A woman who might be my mother. A church. Light… and…’ She stops and her eyes dart furtively before she’s shaking her head until the veil trembles. ‘It’s nothing. Fragments. In the grand scheme of my life’s purpose, they don’t matter.’

‘Of course they fucking matter,’ I rumble with deathly softness. ‘They’re a part of you.’

Her eyes flash. ‘I am Benedetta.’

‘And I’m the Pope,’ I say. ‘Benedetta, you don’t even like that name. It doesn’t fit your beautiful mouth.’

She flinches, as if I’ve reached inside and pressed bruises.

The door hisses and the younger doctor slides back in, keeping to the edge of the room like a man circling a sleeping wolf.

He holds up a small vial for the older one to see, eyebrows a question. The older doctor takes it, weighs it, looks at me.

‘Signore,’ he says carefully, ‘I must insist. It’s time for your medication. Your… trip last night took a heavy toll. We need to conduct extensive tests. Then you need rest. The agitation will… could cause a setback.’