Page 35 of His Savage Ruin
“Dangerous question in this house,” Rafael says, his tone wry. “We’re not exactly known for safe amusements.”
Matteo’s silence is keeping me on edge and I keep stealing glances.
“I’m beginning to think danger might be more interesting than safety,” I reply, raising my brows.
“Careful,” Dante warns, lowering his voice just enough to make it intimate. “Interesting things tend to create complicated situations.”
“And boring women end up forgotten,” I counter softly. “I know which I’d prefer.”
The table ripples with laughter—easy, warm, layered with amusement rather than menace. Even Luca, who has been silent until now, shakes his head with a faint look of disapproval that doesn’t quite hide his smirk.
The laughter still hangs in the air when Dante reaches for the wine bottle. I shift to refill my glass at the same time, and his fingers brush mine in the pass. The contact is fleeting, accidental enough to be dismissed, but enough that I wonder if Matteo will react.
My pulse stutters. I pull my hand back quickly, covering the slip by lifting the glass to my lips.
The response comes, low and steady, from the head of the table. “Touch her again, Dante, and you’ll find out just how permanent stains can be.”
The words aren’t shouted, but they land with lethal weight.
The air stills, and all eyes flick toward Matteo. His expression hasn’t changed—calm, almost bored—but the edge in his tone is sharp enough to draw blood.
Dante holds up both hands in mock surrender, though amusement dances in his eyes. “Relax,fratello. I was only being polite. Passing the wine, nothing more.”
“Polite looks different where I’m from,” Matteo replies. His eyes cut to Dante, then to me, and back again. “Keep it that way.”
For a beat, the table is silent. Then Isabella sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes as she breaks the tension. “Honestly. You’d think we were still teenagers, the way you posture. Can we eat before someone decides to draw swords?”
Her comment earns a ripple of laughter, even from Rafael, and the sharpness in the room eases again.
I find myself oddly warmed by the shift. For all their threats and dangerous edges, there’s something real in the way they banter—like this isn’t just a table of killers, but men who’ve bled and laughed together long enough to act like brothers.
Still, I can feel Matteo’s gaze burn into me from across the table. It’s not just possession; it’s warning, layered with something I can’t quite name. His protection may shield me, but it’s also a chain I can never forget.
I set my fork down carefully, I look up meeting his eyes. I don’t look away, don’t soften the defiance in my stare. Heat prickles under my skin, and I know it’s not from fear, but from the strange, borrowed power of standing toe-to-toe with the Devil himself and not flinching.
And for the briefest moment, I see it in his expression—a flicker of pride, almost admiration, before the mask slides back into place.
The meal winds down with easier chatter. Enzo tells a dry story about Rafael losing a bet in Naples; Isabella interrupts with scathing commentary that makes Luca almost choke on hiswine; Dante keeps grinning like he’s enjoying the whole circus. Even Matteo is smiling more than I have ever seen him.
When they finally rise, it isn’t the sharp dispersal of a council breaking, but the natural drift of men who’ve spent years together. Enzo leaves with a clap to Rafael’s shoulder, murmuring something that makes him chuckle. Luca pauses to squeeze Isabella’s hand before disappearing down the hall. Dante lingers, offering me one last wink before Matteo’s stare drives him out.
The others drift away, their voices fading into the vast hall, until it’s just Matteo and me in the cavernous dining room. He rises from the head of the table, slowly, like a king dismissing the remnants of his court.
“Back to your room.”
My gaze wanders down the hall as I stand, catching on the carved oak door I’d noticed earlier. A sliver of warm light seeps from the crack, faint but insistent. Something about it pulls at me, sharper than instinct.
I point before I can stop myself. “That room. What is it?”
His eyes follow my gesture, narrowing slightly. “Why?”
“Because it looks interesting,” I say, lifting my chin. “And because I’m bored of staring at the same walls. If you expect meto stay locked away like some expensive ornament, you could at least allow me some distraction.”
For a long moment, I think he’ll refuse. Then his jaw tightens, and with clipped finality: “Five minutes.”
Victory hums low in my chest.
He pushes the doors open, and the scent hits me first—leather, old paper, cedar polished by years of care. The library is vast, two stories high, a cathedral of books. Rolling ladders gleam in the low light, shelves stretching upward until they seem to merge with the ceiling beams.
