Page 37 of His Savage Ruin
His eyes narrow. "You told his family I was behind his death. Why lie?"
I meet his stare, steady despite the panic fluttering beneath. "I didn't blame you specifically. I didn't know which of his enemies finally put him in the ground. There were plenty."
The room shrinks around us, shadows lengthening, his presence crowding. He steps closer, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the weight of him.
His voice lowers, precise, cutting. "Be careful, Alessia. You think you're clever, but you're walking blindfolded into fire."
My grip tightens on the book, knuckles white. Defiance is all I have left. "Then maybe I'll burn."
For a moment, his eyes flash with anger, intrigue, hunger all tangled together. Then he turns, shoulders rigid, and walks out to the door. “Time’s up,principessa”
I walk out, heading back to my room without turning back but I can feel his heat behind me making me crave things I shouldn’t.
When I get to the hallway, I see Marco in his post standing like a statue. I turn to see if Matteo is behind me because I don’t feel him anymore. No one is there. I go into my room and I hear two clicks at the door knob, and only then do I breathe again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Alessia
Blood pools beneath Lorenzo's head like spilled wine, dark and thick against the marble tiles. His lips move, forming words I can't quite hear over the rushing in my ears. Then his eyes snap open—wrong, all wrong, gray instead of brown—and his mouth curves into a smile that belongs on a living man's face.
"Bambola mia," he whispers, reaching for me with hands that should be cold and still. "You think you can escape?"
The blood spreads, creeping toward my bare feet like fingers?—
I jolt awake with a gasp, my heart slamming against my ribs. Sweat dampens my skin despite the cool air, and my breath comes in sharp bursts I can’t control.
“Alessia.” His voice cuts through the fog. A warm hand is on my shoulder, steadying me. “Wake up. You were dreaming. You’re safe.”
The nightmare clings to me like smoke, Lorenzo’s voice still echoing in my ears. The pillows and sheets lay scattered across the bed, destroyed in my sleep. My body is close enough to Matteo to feel the heat radiating from his skin, close enough to catch his scent.
"I'm fine," I lie, my voice shakier than I want it to be.
The concern in his expression makes something twist in my chest. When was the last time someone worried about my nightmares? When was the last time anyone cared enough to notice my distress?
I try to sit up, but my silk nightgown has twisted around me in sleep. The fabric pulls tight across my ribs as I move, and I feel the familiar ache where old wounds left their mark. Matteo's eyes track the movement, and I realize with growing horror that the neckline has slipped, revealing more than I ever intended.
His expression changes. The sleepy concern hardens into something far more dangerous as his gaze fixes on my shoulder, where the thin strap has fallen away to reveal a glimpse of scarred skin.
"Who did this to you?"
The question comes out quietly. My throat closes around any possible denial. He's seen enough to know these aren't accidents, the result of clumsiness or bad luck. The thin white lines that crisscross my ribs tell their own story of deliberate cruelty.
"It's nothing." I reach to pull the nightgown back into place, desperate to hide what I've spent months keeping secret. But Matteo's hand shoots out, catching my wrist before I can cover myself.
"Don't." His grip is firm, immovable. "Who did this to you?"
The careful mask I've worn for so long cracks under the weight of his stare. He's not asking out of idle curiosity—there's something in his eyes that promises retribution, that makes my confession feel less like weakness and more like justice.
"We both know."
The truth falls between us. Matteo goes completely still, so motionless he could be carved from marble. Fury simmers beneath the surface, sharp enough to cut. I shouldn’t notice how handsome he is in this moment, how dangerous and compelling. Yet I do, and the realization unsettles me almost as much as my confession.
When he speaks again, his voice carries the promise of death. "How?"
The simple question opens floodgates I've kept sealed for months. But I don’t see the point of hiding it from him, anyway. "A belt, usually. Sometimes his fists when he was angry enough. Once with a letter opener when I spoke back at a dinner party." The words tumble out of me, each one easier than the last. "He said it was important to establish expectations early. That a wife who understood pain would be more... compliant."
Matteo's jaw clenches so hard I can hear his teeth grind. His free hand curls into a fist, knuckles going white with the effort of restraint. I've seen him kill without hesitation, watched him end lives with clinical precision, but this controlled fury is something else entirely. This is personal.
