Page 68 of His Savage Ruin
The kitchen staff nods at me when I pass through, and I nod back even though I'm barely paying attention. The garden smells like jasmine so heavy and sweet in the morning heat that it almost makes my head swim. The terrace has climbing roses everywhere.
And everywhere I go, I can feel Matteo watching me.
The awareness prickles across my skin, and I've become so attuned to his presence over the past few weeks that I can tell when his eyes are on me even when I can't see him. It should bother me more than it does, this constant surveillance, but instead it makes my pulse quicken.
I'm in the garden when I finally catch him at it. The sun beats down hard enough that sweat gathers at the nape of my neck and makes my dress stick to my back. I've stopped to look at a rose when that familiar awareness washes over me again.
I turn slowly and there he is in the second-floor window. Just a dark silhouette against the glass, too far away for me to make out his expression, but I know without a doubt that he's been standing there watching me for however long I've been wandering around down here.
Our eyes meet across the distance and neither of us moves. The moment stretches out uncomfortably long, and I have this strange urge to do something to break the tension—wave at him maybe, or just turn away and pretend I didn't notice—but I don't do either of those things. I just stand there staring back at him with my hand still resting on the rose petals and my heart beating faster than it should.
Then he steps back from the window and disappears into the shadows, and I'm left standing alone in the garden with heat crawling up my spine that has nothing to do with the sun beating down on my shoulders.
Later that afternoon, Isabella finds me on the terrace.
She appears with a tea tray balanced in one hand and a worn book tucked under her arm. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she's wearing a thin cotton dress that's already sticking to her from the humidity.
"Thought you might want something cold," she says, setting the tray down. "It's miserable out here."
The pitcher is already sweating, ice melting into cloudy water around two tall glasses. I watch her pour something amber-colored that smells like citrus and herbs mixed together.
"What is it?"
"Lemon and mint," she says. "My mother's recipe."
She slides a glass toward me and takes the chair across the table. The iron is hot against my bare legs even through my dress. Above us, roses hang heavy on their vines, petals browning at the edges from too much sun.
I sip the tea. It's cold and sharp. "Your mother had good taste."
The book sits between us, spine cracked and cover faded. I tilt my head to read the title.
Isabella catches me looking. "The heroine does a lot of stupid things but at least she doesn't take any garbage from the men around her. Figured you'd relate."
I laugh despite myself. "So, I'm the stupid heroine now?"
"Well, you are here, aren't you?" But she's grinning when she says it, taking the edge off. "At least you're entertaining about it."
We drink our tea and let the cicadas fill the silence. The noise is almost oppressive, a constant drone that makes the air feel even thicker. But Isabella doesn't seem to mind. She tips her head back, exposing the pale column of her throat to the sun, and closes her eyes.
"Rafael walked past two maids in the corridor yesterday," I say, to lighten the mood. "Both of them tripped over their own skirts trying to get out of his way."
Isabella snorts, hand flying up to cover her mouth. "That sounds exactly like Rafael. He probably loved every second of it."
"He winked at them."
"Of course he did." She shakes her head, but she's smiling now. Real and unguarded. "Dante would never. He'd just adjust his cufflinks and pretend he didn't notice them swooning."
"Does he always dress like that? Like he's about to give a speech in parliament?"
"Always." She takes another sip of tea. "I think the suit is armor for him. Makes him look civilized when—" She pauses, smile fading slightly. "When none of them really are."
Something in her tone shifts, and I glance over to find her staring into her tea like she's reading something there.
"Enzo's the worst," she says quietly, and there's an edge to her voice now that wasn't there before. Not quite anger, but definitely not fondness either. "Everyone thinks he's the calm one. The reasonable one. But that's what makes him so dangerous."
I wait, sensing there's more she wants to say. "He saved Matteo once," she continues. "There was an ambush, one of our father's old enemies trying to settle scores. Enzo killed three men that night." Her fingers find the rim of her glass and start tracing circles. "After that he was different. Colder. Like he'd figured outhow easy it was to end someone and decided it was fine." The circles keep going, round and round, almost hypnotic.
“He saved me too.” The words come out softer, like she didn’t quite mean to say them.
