Page 32 of Savage Lover

He fills my brain.

Maybe it’s the adrenaline of the moment, but I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

His jaw is a straight, sharp line beneath those ridiculously full lips. His mouth is perfectly shaped—pouting, cruel, mobile, sarcastic. And yet soft, and infinitely enticing. He looks the most Italian of any of his brothers, his skin almost as brown as mine. It’s smooth and clear. His broad nose is strong enough to balance those lips. And then you have his eyes . . .

God almighty, why did you give the man with the blackest soul the most heavenly eyes?

They’re long, narrow, and light gray in color. Lighter than his skin. The gray almost looks silver, shot through with darker bands that radiate out from the pupil like a starburst.

He turns those eyes on me, sparing a glance from the road. It feels like a spike driving into my chest. For just a second, I wish that I were beautiful, so he’d want to look at me the way I’m looking at him.

He fixes his eyes on the road again.

The sirens are just a little more distant now. Maybe two streets over.

Nero checks the rear-view mirror once more, then jerks the wheel to the right and turns into an underground parking garage. He takes us down to the second level, pulling into a tight spot between a van and a truck. He cuts the lights.

“We’ll wait here a minute,” he says.

It’s only in the sudden silence that I hear my blood rushing in my ears, and I realize how fast my heart has been beating all this time.

I sink back in my seat, gasping for air.

I cover my eyes with my hands, trying to block out the car, the garage, and Nero, so I can breathe.

The weight of all the trouble I’m in is pressing down on me like a block of stone. Victor, my dad, Schultz, Levi . . . I can see them all circling around me, all needing something. Now I don’t even have my car, and I’m stuck in here with Nero, about to be arrested any second.

My heart is seizing up in my chest. My breath comes faster and more ragged. I feel like I’m dying.

Nero grabs my hand and peels it away from my face. He presses hard on the flesh between my thumb and index finger.

The jolt of pressure cuts through my racing thoughts. It focuses all sensation on that one point in my hand.

Nero keeps squeezing, his strong fingers as relentless as a vise.

Right when the pressure is turning into pain, he starts kneading his thumb into my palm instead. He’s holding my hand between both of his, massaging the exhausted muscles of my fingers and palm.

I never realized how tired my hands get, working all day long. The massage is agony and ecstasy. It gives me relief so powerful I can barely stand it.

My breathing slows. I’m sitting up straighter, focused only on my hand.

Nero drops the left hand and picks up the right. He does the same thing, rubbing all the tension out of my flesh.

He seems to know exactly where to touch, as if he can read my aches with his fingertips.

I never imagined that Nero could have a gentle touch. I’ve seen him get in more fights than I can count. He’s like a walking weapon—violent, unpredictable, wreaking destruction on whatever he touches.

I’ve seen him with girls, too. Even then, he’s always been rough and aggressive.

This is different.

Maybe because he doesn’t see me as a girl.

He’s touching me the way he’d touch a car engine—with a desire to fix it. He diagnosed me, and he’s making me run smooth again.

I pull back my hand. “Thanks,” I say. “I’m good now.”

“Good.” Nero nods.

---