Page 44 of The Savage

‘Because I’ve waited years to breathe properly, angel,’ he rasps, eyes blazing with unholy light. ‘And for the first time, I think I finally can.’

The room seems to lean towards him. My heart stutters once, twice, like a bird testing the air.

‘Sleep, Benedetta,’ he adds, that almost-smile ghosting his mouth again. ‘In the morning, God can watch while I teach you how to remember.’

* * *

Renzo

I haven’t slept.

How the fuck can I when she’s sleeping next to me?

So damn beautiful I want to weep with joy and rip the world apart at the same time.

I’m not risking her disappearing again. Not on the strength of a locked door and a fragile rosary binding our wrists together. And fuck it, I hate that I’m too weak to be effective if anyone tried. So I listen to her breathing instead.

She sleeps soundly. Almost noiselessly. Like the angel she’s determined to be.

I take consolation in the fact that she didn’t pull away when I asked her to bind us with the beads. Maybe it was obedience. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe something deeper that neither of us wants to admit yet.

But as I lie here, weak as a wet kitten and twice as angry, I begin to resent a whole lot of things.

And at the top of my rapidly growing shit list?

That fucking Madre Superiora.

She has a lot to answer for.

But I’ll get my own answers before I deal with her.

I slide the key to the room under my ass for safekeeping and reach for my phone, careful not to disturb the sleeping angel beside me.

The glow of the screen lights up the room in pale blue, tracing her profile in soft relief. Shamelessly, I trace the plump curve of her lips, the delicate arch of her brow, the fall of her hair against the pillow I insisted she use. I stare for too long before I remember why I picked up the phone in the first place.

The device unlocks with a fingerprint, and I start making calls.

Quiet ones. Strategic ones. To people who owe me more than favours and know better than to ask for explanations.

They answer quickly as they always do when a Salvatore calls, and I’ve never been more grateful for the blood that sings through my veins.

I keep my voice low and clipped, giving clear and concise instructions that don’t invite questions. The first two calls are to men who can keep secrets; the third, to a woman who knows how to move paperwork through Vatican bureaucracy without raising flags.

When that’s done, I open the secure app with the owl logo, watch with an irritated pulse ticking at my temple as it takes its time to boot up. I’m pretty sure it used to be faster. Nightowl is fucking with me.

Once the neon-green source code has finished trickling down the screen in showy graphics, I type.

Renzo

All this time, you knew where she was?

A bubble appears almost immediately.

Nightowl

Again… you’re welcome.

I stare at the words for a long second, jaw tight.