Page 69 of His Savage Ruin
I go still, glass halfway to my mouth.
Isabella’s fingers stop moving. She stares at the jasmine climbing the far wall, not blinking.
“Isabella—"
“I was thirteen.” Her voice has gone flat, distant. “Some rival family thought they could use me to get to my father.”
My stomach twists but I don’t interrupt. I can see she wants to share this with me and won’t stop her.
"They kept saying they were going to hide me. Bury me where no one could find me."
Her hand trembles and she sets the glass down before it slips from her fingers.
"I tried counting to keep track of time but I couldn't tell if it was day or night. There were sounds, scratching in the walls, maybe rats, I don't know. And I kept thinking this is it, this is where I die and no one will ever find me."
"How long?" I ask, even though I'm not sure I want to know.
"They say three days, though it felt like three years." She swallows hard. "Enzo found me somehow. I still don't know how he tracked them down, but he did. Pulled me out of there and I couldn't even walk. My legs were numb from being curled up so long. He had to carry me."
She's crying now, silent tears sliding down her face, but she keeps talking like if she stops, she won't be able to start again.
"When we got back, I just wanted to disappear. I wanted to stop having to remember what it felt like in the dark. But Matteo wouldn't let me. Every morning he'd drag me out of bed even when I couldn't move. Make me eat even when I wanted to refuse."
Her voice breaks and she presses her fist against her mouth, trying to hold back a sob.
"Sometimes I hated him for it. For not just letting me give up. It would have been easier." She takes a shaky breath. "But I think that's the only reason I'm still here. Because he wouldn't let me make that choice."
I'm across the table before I realize I'm moving, dropping to my knees beside her chair and taking her hand. It's freezing despite the heat, shaking so hard I can barely hold it steady.
"You don't have to talk about it," I tell her, but she shakes her head.
"I never talk about this. Not since right after." She wipes at her face with her free hand, smearing mascara across her cheek. "I don't even know why I'm telling you."
"Maybe because you needed to tell someone who'd understand."
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and something passes between us. Recognition maybe. We're both carrying things too heavy to hold alone.
"You don't have to do it by yourself," I say quietly. "Whatever you're carrying. You don't have to heal alone."
Her face crumples and she leans forward, forehead pressing against my shoulder. "Neither do you."
The words hit me harder than they should, and I have to blink against the sudden burning in my eyes because she's right. We're both trapped in this world of violent men and terrible secrets, both trying to survive however we can.
I wrap my arms around her and hold on while she cries, quieter now, like maybe some of the poison is finally working its way out. The sun shifts lower in the sky and the tea goes warm in our glasses and we stay there together, two women who understand what it costs to survive in a world that wants to break us, holding each other in the heat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Matteo
The war room smells like my father, old leather creaks under shifting weight.
When I was a boy, he brought me here once, late at night, told me to sit in the corner and keep quiet while the men argued over territory lines. I remember being too small for the chair, my feet not touching the ground, listening to his voice cut through men twice his size. He told me later the table remembers everything said over it—that decisions made here will outlive the men who make them.
Tonight, I feel that weight pressing down on my shoulders.
The Brotherhood is already here when I walk in, scattered around the table the way they always are.
I plant my palms on the table, and the first thing out of my mouth is, "I'm tired of getting fucked with."
