Page 32 of His Savage Ruin
My hand goes under the bed, where I quickly hid the keys. One wrong move and I’m finished. But if I wait too long, the chance will slip through my fingers.
Minutes pass. I peep through the keyhole at the doors and Marco stands stationed outside, silent as stone. Then Romeo’s voice drifts in: “I’ll head down to the kitchen. Bring back something for later.”
My blood surges. That leaves only Marco. One less pair of watchful eyes.
Okay, I need to think fast because I have no idea where the kitchen is. He might be back in not more than two minutes.
Reacting on instinct, I press a hand to my temple, letting my shoulders sag, rehearsing the mask. “Marco?” My voice is soft, frayed. “I don’t feel well. My head’s still pounding and I think I need a doctor.”
There’s a pause, the faint sound of shifting boots. “You’ve been checked already.”
“I need to be checked again,” I insist, letting imperiousness sharpen my tone. “Do you want Matteo to hear you ignored me?” I say back.
That does it. Silence, then a reluctant sigh. The doors open up again, and he stares at me like he is examining me. “Lie down and I will go get the doctor.”
The heavy lock clicks, and his footsteps fade down the hall.
The moment he’s gone, I rip the keys from my pocket, fingers trembling as I test them one by one. The third slides in with a blessed click.
The door swings open.
The corridor stretches before me, dim and cavernous. My heart slams against my ribs as I step across the threshold, bare feet silent on the marble. I spot a heavy porcelain vase gleaming on the pedestal to my right, painted with cherubs. I grab it, clutching it like a weapon.
My breathe becomes shallow, sharp. One wrong turn, one creak of the floor and I’ll be caught.
I take three steps into the hall. Four. Five.
Then a shadow shifts at the end of the hall and I freeze, tightening my grip on the vase.
CHAPTER TEN
Matteo
I should have known.
The minute I stepped away, I should have expected she’d try something. Alessia Moretti doesn’t sit quietly in cages.
I round the corner and there she is, barefoot, clutching a vase, eyes wide and wild. Her hair is damp from the shower, the hem of my black shirt clinging to her thighs. She looks like sin and defiance and desperation all rolled into one.
For a heartbeat, I don’t move. I just take in the sight of her, fire burning in her eyes, chest rising fast with adrenaline. She’s beautiful like this, more dangerous than any Moretti soldier.
Then she raises the vase.
My body reacts before my mind does. I lunge forward, closing the distance in three strides. My hand shoots up, catching her wrist mid-swing, stopping the porcelain an inch from my head. The impact throws down my arm, her strength is surprising.
“You were going to crack my skull open with a vase?” My voice is low, lethal.
She doesn’t flinch. “If I’d had the chance, yes.”
For a moment, fury roars in me, but underneath it, desire coils like smoke. She’s the only person in this house reckless enough to look me in the eye and admit she meant to strike. Few men would dare. Fewer women. I had no idea that would be such a turn-on.
I twist the vase from her grip and shove it onto a nearby table, crowding her back against the wall in the same motion. My hand stays wrapped around her wrist, pinning it beside her head. Her pulse hammers against my palm.
“How did you get outside?” I snarl, my face inches from hers.
She bares her teeth in something that’s not quite a smile. “You’re mad if you think I’ll tell you.”
Christ. She’s infuriating. Defiant to the last breath. And it makes me want to break her.
