Page 38 of His Savage Ruin
"From the beginning?" he asks, though something in his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
"The wedding night." The memory still tastes like copper and shame. "He told me it would hurt less if I didn't fight him. But I couldn't... I couldn't just lie there and let him..." I trail off, unable to finish the thought.
"So, you fought back."
"Every time."
"And he punished you for it."
"He said I needed to learn my place."
Matteo releases my wrist and reaches for my face instead, his fingers tracing my jaw with startling gentleness. The contrast between his touch and the violence I've known makes tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
"He's dead," he says simply, and there's satisfaction in his voice that makes something dark and hungry unfurl in my chest.
His thumb brushes across my cheek, and I realize I'm leaning into the touch without conscious thought. "If he weren't, I'd kill him myself. Slowly."
The simple conviction in his words does something to me—melts some frozen part of my heart that I'd thought was permanently damaged. When was the last time my pain mattered to anyone?
"Matteo," I whisper, not sure what I'm asking for but needing to say his name.
He leans closer, his gray eyes searching mine in the dim light. This close, I can see the gold flecks that turn them molten, can feel his breath against my lips.
His mouth is inches from mine, and I can feel the pull between us—gravity and magnetism and something deeper that has nothing to do with captivity or power games. My lips part slightly, an invitation.
When he kisses me, his mouth claims mine with the same authority he wields over everything else in his world—absolute,commanding, brooking no resistance. His hand fists in my hair, tilting my head exactly where he wants it, controlling the angle and depth of the kiss.
It's nothing like Lorenzo's cold, clinical taking. This is fire and possession and the overwhelming presence of a man who knows exactly what he wants. His other hand grips my waist, fingers splaying across my ribs, holding me in place while his mouth devours mine.
I should be afraid—this is dominance in its rawest form, the kind of masculine power that could easily turn dangerous. But there's something in the way he holds me, something in the controlled strength of his grip, that speaks of protection rather than punishment.
When I gasp against his mouth, he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I'm dizzy with it. His teeth graze my bottom lip—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me exactly who's in control here.
His kiss deepens until I’m dizzy, his control absolute. Then he pulls back just enough to breathe against my lips, his voice low and ragged.
“You… do something to me,” he admits, as though the words are torn from him. “I shouldn’t want this. I shouldn’t want you.”
His hand slides from my waist to my throat, thumb pressing gently against my pulse. The gesture is possessive, territorial,but not threatening. He can feel my heart racing under his touch, can read my body's response to his dominance.
Heat pools low in my belly, urgent and demanding. My back arches without permission, pressing me closer to his touch. For the first time in my life, I understand what desire actually feels like—clean and hungry and entirely separate from fear.
His hand slides beneath the hem of my nightgown, palm burning against my bare thigh. The touch makes me jolt from the sheer intensity of sensation. My nerve endings feel raw, oversensitive, as if I'm experiencing touch for the first time.
"You like that," he murmurs against my throat, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice.
I can't form words, can only arch toward his touch as his mouth continues its exploration. When his fingers trace the edge of my underwear, my breath hitches. The past tries to intrude—muscle memory of violation, of pain disguised as pleasure—but his careful attention to my responses keeps me anchored in the present.
His touch becomes more intimate, and I'm lost. Lost in sensation, in the way he watches my face like he's memorizing every expression, in the controlled strength of his hands. This is what I've been missing, what I never knew existed—desire that serves pleasure instead of power.
But as heat threatens to consume me entirely, as his touch promises things I'm not sure I'm ready for, panic cuts through the haze. This is too much, too fast, too overwhelming.
"Stop." The word tears from my throat as I push against his chest.
He pulls back immediately, his hands leaving my body as if I've burned him. For a moment, we stare at each other across the sudden distance—me breathing hard and trembling, him watching me with eyes that have gone dark and dangerous.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unfinished business and the memory of his hands on my skin. I can see him fighting for control, see the way his jaw clenches with the effort of restraint, the bulge in his pants craving release. But he doesn't do anything.
“This can’t keep happening,” he says finally, his voice rougher than before. “This pull between us. You stir things in me I don’t understand—and if it goes any further, I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”
