Page 33 of His Savage Ruin
“If you ever try something like this again, I won’t be gentle.” My grip tightens just enough to remind her who holds the power. “I’ll chain you to the bed and throw away the key.”
Her eyes blaze, but there’s no fear in them. Only stubborn fire. “Better a chain I can see than invisible ones you pretend don’t exist.”
The words hit harder than I expect, a punch of truth I can’t entirely dodge. I swallow the reaction just in time.
I lean closer, my breath brushing her damp hair. “Careful,principessa. Don’t test me.”
For a heartbeat, the air between us crackles.
Her chest heaves, lips parted, eyes flicking to my mouth before snapping back up. I see the war inside her, the hate and want, clashing until neither wins.
I step back abruptly, releasing her wrist before I forget myself. The imprint of her pulse lingers in my hand.
“Get inside.” My voice is ice again, honed sharp to hide the heat beneath.
She straightens, smoothing the hem of my shirt with trembling fingers, but she doesn’t obey immediately.
“Make me.”
My jaw tightens. The urge to throw her over my shoulder and prove exactly how little choice she has burns hot. Instead, I clamp down on it, forcing control.
“Inside. Now.”
This time, she moves. Slowly, but she moves. I follow, closing the door behind us.
She crosses her arms, glaring at me from the middle of the room. “So that’s your solution? Threatening to chain me like some animal?”
“That’s my promise.”
Her laugh is sharp but brittle. “You really don’t know what to do with me, do you?”
I take a step closer, letting her feel the weight of my shadow. “Oh,principessa. I know exactly what to do with you. The question is whether you’re ready to face it.”
Alessia
When Matteo drags me back inside, the room hums with the residual violence of what I tried to do and what I almost succeeded at.
He releases me at last and steps back, the silhouette of a predator folding into the calm of a king who’s just stifled a rebellion.
As I scan his poise, my eyes catch a corner of his shirt stained with blood.
If he dies, I won’t be bargaining. I’ll be bargaining with men who’d slit a throat for a favor. So I step forward.
“Your shirt,” I say, voice low and quick. “It’s bleeding through.”
He looks at me then, as if surprised by a new variable. For a ragged second his facade splits and a bare sliver of something like calculation or… concern slips through. Then he blinks it away.
“Leave it,” he says, too clipped.
“No.” The word comes sharp. I can feel the heat of his glare and yet drag a cloth from the nearby desk, my fingers steady because the thought of what follows if I don’t act is steadier still. “If you die, I don’t know what happens to me.”
The admission sits between us; plain, ugly, true. He looks at me like he is considering the possibility of throwing me out thenext minute, then he loosens the cuff of his shirt, unbuttons his collar, and frees the arm just enough for me to take a look at the wound.
His skin is hot under the thin fabric. Blood beads at the collar and dark dots spread like bruises. I get a cloth and some hot water from the bathroom and then I press the cloth to the wound. He inhales, the sound sharp and instinctive. My hands linger over the cut, dampening it, mopping it with small motions. Up close, I see the wound more clearly — a shallow, ragged line. There’s dirt at the edges.
The heat of him is a living thing; the scent of soap and the iron tang of blood smells together around me. My fingers brush his ribs and I have a flash of unnamable thoughts that stab through me. He doesn’t jerk away while he watches my face, and hands working.
“Stop,” he whispers. The word is raw enough to shatter the quiet. “You have helped enough.”
