Page 31 of His Savage Ruin
“You’d be surprised what I own.” My voice is low, edged. “And if you think flashing those big eyes will earn you favors, think again. You’re mine to handle. No one else’s.”
Her eyes flash, t partly filled with anger and something hotter. “You sound jealous, Matteo.”
The word lands like a blade. Jealous. I almost laugh, but the sound dies in my throat. Instead, I lean down, close enough that she can feel the heat of my breath. “Don’t flatter yourself. What I feel is control. And control means making sure my men don’t mistake my prisoner for a queen.”
Her lips part as if to fire back, but I cut her off, straightening. “There’s a dinner in a couple of days. My inner circle and Isabella will be there. You may attend or stay locked in this room like a sulking child. You decide.”
“And if I come?”
“Then you’ll sit quietly, smile when spoken to, and above all…” I pin her with a look that brooks no argument “you won’t do anything stupid.”
The silence between us stretches, crackling with defiance on her end and possession on mine. Finally, she nods once, sharp and mocking. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Don Romano.”
I turn on my heel before I do something reckless, like drag her back against the dresser and wipe the insolence from her mouth with my lips.
The door slams behind me, but the image of her scars follows me down the hall like a ghost I can’t exorcise.
Alessia
The door slams behind him, leaving me alone with the echo of his voice.
Don’t do anything stupid.
I pace the length of the suite, silk shirt brushing my bare thighs, trying to shake off the feel of his presence. The way he loomed over me, accusing, possessive. And yet—behind the fury, I’d seen it. The flicker of something almost human when his eyes caught on my scars. I covered them quickly, but not quickly enough. He saw. And that unsettled me more than anything else.
A knock startles me. My heart kicks, ready for him again, storming back with more commands. But when the door opens, it isn’t Matteo—it’s two women carrying glossy shopping bags, arms weighed down with boxes and fabric.
“Delivery from Signor Romano,” the older one says, placing the bags neatly on the velvet sofa. Her voice is soothing and smooth. The younger one drops to her knees to arrange everything as though I’m some pampered mistress instead of a prisoner.
The sight stirs something sharp inside me. Gifts, clothes, silk dresses—it’s not kindness. It’s control, another way to remind me that he dictates what touches my skin.
I drift closer, feigning casual curiosity. “He got all this for me?”
The older maid nods, offering a small smile. “He said you’d need proper things.”
Of course, he did.
As they fuss with the piles of silk and lace, I tilt my head and soften my tone, to make my voice harmless. “Have you been working here long?”
“Three years,” the younger one answers, still focused on folding tissue paper.
“And you?”
“Five,” says the older one.
I let out a soft laugh, brushing my hair back to make an idle conversation. “Then you must know all him pretty well.”
They exchange a glance—quick, telling I’ve hooked them, a little charm with a little curiosity. That’s how you make people forget they’re talking to the enemy.
When the younger maid bends to pick up some scarves she’s dropped, I hear the jingle of keys at her belt. The sound is like lightning in my veins. My pulse spikes, and before my brain can caution me, my hand is moving.
I crouch beside her, with my fingers brushing hers in a gesture of false assistance, my other hand hooks the ring clean off her belt. Smooth. Quick. She doesn’t notice.
The keys are in my pocket before my heart has finished its first wild beat.
I turn away, trying to act normal and calm because my hands are shaking. “Thank you,” I say casually, steady despite the fear raging inside me. “This is… generous.”
They smile politely, and after a few more adjustments, they leave. The lock clicks behind them.
