Page 79 of His Savage Ruin
Isabella works on my hair next, pinning it up in a style that's softer than I usually wear. Makeup comes after—subtle, just enough to brighten my eyes.
When she finally steps back, I turn to face the mirror.
The woman staring back looks nothing like me. My neck is exposed, hair pinned up to show the column of my throat. Themakeup softens features I usually keep bare, makes my eyes look larger and less guarded. And the dress fits perfectly, draping in elegant lines that make me look refined, almost delicate.
"Beautiful," Isabella murmurs. Then, quieter: "Are you ready for this?"
Am I?
The question brings a flood of memories I've been trying to avoid. When I was a little girl, I used to watch my mother get ready for parties, and I'd ask her about her wedding day. She'd smile and tell me about the church full of flowers, about how my father cried when she walked down the aisle, about how she knew—absolutely knew—that she was marrying the right man.
I'd close my eyes and imagine my own wedding someday. A real one, where I'd wear a dress I chose myself and marry someone I actually loved. Someone who made me laugh. Someone who looked at me like I was the most important person in the world.
Instead, I got Lorenzo. A church ceremony I barely remember because I'd been crying so hard in the dressing room. A reception where I smiled until my face hurt while Lorenzo's hand stayed clamped on my waist like a shackle. A wedding night that ended with bruises instead of tenderness because he got so drunk, he didn’t know what he was doing.
And now I'm doing it again. Putting on a dress, promising forever to a man I barely know. Except this time, there's no crying. No one forcing me to smile. And the man waiting for meis dangerous in ways Lorenzo never was, but he's also shown me glimpses of something else—protection, maybe, or possession so absolute it might as well be the same thing.
"No," I admit. "But I'm doing it anyway."
She squeezes my hand. "That's all any of us can do."
Just then, a knock at the door interrupts us, and then I hear Matteo's voice: "It's time."
Isabella opens it, and there he is. Black suit that fits him perfectly, white shirt, and I notice he's holding a black tie in one hand like he hasn't decided whether to put it on yet. His hair is slicked back, revealing the full length of his scar. He's not hiding today.
When his eyes find me, he goes very still. I watch his throat work as he swallows, see his hands curl into fists at his sides before he forces them to relax.
"Cristo," he breathes.
"Is that good or bad?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Good." He crosses to me in three strides, stops just close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You're—" He stops, jaw working like the words are stuck. "My mother's dress."
"Isabella said?—"
"I know." His hand comes up, cups my face with surprising gentleness. "She would have loved seeing you in it."
The tenderness in his voice cracks something open in my ribs. I cover his hand with mine, feel the calluses on his palm, the old scars across his knuckles.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask quietly.
His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "I've never been more sure of anything."
He offers his arm, I take it and together we walk toward whatever this ceremony will make us.
When we get to the study, I notice it has been transformed.
Candles flicker on every surface—dozens of them casting warm light that softens the leather furniture and dark wood paneling. White roses fill crystal vases, their scent thick and almost overwhelming. Someone has moved the furniture to create an aisle of sorts, chairs lined up in neat rows even though there can't be more than ten people here.
The men stand when we enter. Enzo near the window, dressed in a suit that actually makes him look civilized. Rafael beside him, cigarette conspicuously absent for once. Dante by the bookshelf,watching with those calculating eyes that miss nothing. Luca near the door, arms folded, expression unreadable as always.
And at the head of the room, a priest. Old, gray-haired, looking uncomfortable in his vestments like he's been dragged here against his better judgment.
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs, and suddenly I'm back in that other church, the one in Chicago where I married Lorenzo. The priest there had looked at me with pity, like he knew what my life was about to become. I'd stood at the back of that church in a dress that cost more than most people's cars, and all I could think was that I was walking toward my own execution.
This is different, I tell myself. This time I'm choosing it, even if my choices are limited.
This is actually happening. No more hypotheticals or strategies or distant future plans. Right now, in this room, with these witnesses, I'm becoming Matteo Romano's wife.
