Page 51 of The Savage

For a minute, I stare at the empty doorway, the echo of her voice still soft in my ears: You’re a terrible man.

Yeah. Probably.

But terrible men are the only ones who get things done.

* * *

When the door opens again, I almost forget how to breathe.

She steps in, flanked by the nurses, damp hair coiled beneath her veil, the faint scent of soap trailing in her wake. The habit is clean, freshly pressed, but the fabric stretches tight over her tits just enough for me to imagine what she looks like without it. To remind me what she looks like underneath.

Has her body changed as spectacularly as her face? Have her hips filled out more? Her ass plumper?

Fuck, does her pussy taste like the wild honey I remember? Or wilder still now she’s older?

Her cheeks are flushed from the shower, lips pink from biting them. There’s water still clinging to the edge of her wimple like tiny drops of dew.

And just like that, my blood surges south and I fight and lose a battle with a groan.

She catches the change in my breathing, the way my eyes linger too long, the way my cock surges under the sheets, and colour blooms up her throat. She stares… and stares, then she jerks away, makes the sign of the cross in mid-air like she’s warding off a demon.

I can’t help it. I laugh.

‘God won’t listen to that prayer, baby,’ I say, low and rough. ‘I got in first with mine.’

Her brows knit as she eyes me warily through her lashes. ‘And what, exactly, did a man like you pray for?’

I lick my lips, slow and deliberate, almost wishing I could reach under the sheet, stroke myself. But all it’ll take is one stroke for me to blow like a damn fire hydrant. And as much as I’m dying to, I’m not wasting that load on hospital sheets. Not when the memory of unloading inside Giada Mancinelli has me in a fever grip. ‘Didn’t use words. But I sent a whole load of visual aids so He’s got the picture, I’m sure, nice and clear.’

She sputters, takes a step back, colliding with the junior doctor who’s come in behind her. He catches her by the elbow to steady her.

A dark, feral growl rolls out of me before I can stop it. ‘Take your fucking hands off her.’

The doctor blanches, drops his hands and takes several steps aside.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ I snap. ‘It’s beginning to feel like Grand Central Station around here.’

She looks from me to the older physician, then to the chair he’s indicating, before returning to me. ‘You’re staying?’

‘For the tenth time, I’m not letting you out of my sight.’ I glance at the doctor. ‘With your permission, of course, I’ve got all the information she needs.’

The man hesitates, clearly unsure what that means, then clears his throat. ‘Of course, Signore.’

Giada – Benedetta, whatever she wants to call herself – sits stiffly in the chair beside my bed. The habit rustles softly. Her pretty hands fold in her lap like folded wings.

The doctor pulls another chair around, tablet at the ready. ‘Sister Benedetta, we’re going to begin gently, yes? We’ll start with basic biographical data. If anything feels overwhelming, tell me.’

She nods, still pale.

‘Do you know how old you are?’ he asks.

A wave of sorrow rushes over her face and she shakes her head. ‘All I know is I’m in my twenties.’

The doctor looks at me. Nods.

‘Your date of birth is the thirteenth of April 2000. That makes you twenty-five.’

She frowns faintly at me, mouthing the numbers like a prayer. ‘Twenty-five.’