Page 8 of His Savage Ruin
The door opens and Dr. Reeves emerges, carrying a blood sample in a sealed vial. "I'll need about thirty minutes to process this," he says quietly.
I nod. "I'll wait with her."
Stepping back into the room, I find Alessia sitting exactly as I left her, but something has changed. The rigid control in her posture has given way to something that looks almost like... resignation?
"How are you feeling?" I ask, settling into the chair across from her.
"Like someone who's been kidnapped and is having unauthorized medical tests run," she replies, but the previous fire in her voice seems dimmed.
"Standard precaution. We need to ensure you and the child are healthy for transport."
Her eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, I see something raw and vulnerable before she locks it away again. "Transport?"
"To more comfortable accommodations. A pregnant woman deserves better than a warehouse."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I watch her carefully. The way her fingers worry at something invisible on her left hand, the careful control of her breathing, the slight tremor in her jaw she's trying to hide.
The minutes tick by in relative silence. I check my phone—messages from Enzo about transport readiness, updates from Rafael about perimeter security, the usual stream of information that flows through a don's day. But my attention keeps drifting back to the woman across from me.
"Tell me about Lorenzo," I say eventually, needing to fill the silence.
Her entire body goes rigid. "What about him?"
"What kind of husband was he?"
"The kind you'd expect from a Moretti," she says, her voice flat and carefully controlled.
"Which means?"
She doesn't answer immediately, her gaze fixed on some point beyond my shoulder. When she finally speaks, her voice carries a weight that wasn't there before. "Powerful. Demanding. Used to getting what he wanted."
"And what did he want from you?"
"The usual things men like him want from their wives. Obedience. Silence. A son to carry on the family name."
Something in her tone makes me lean forward slightly. "Did he get what he wanted?"
Her laugh is bitter and sharp as broken glass. "Not all of it."
I study her reaction carefully—the way her shoulders tense at the mention of his name, the careful neutrality in her tone that feels rehearsed. There's something there, buried beneath the surface, but she's not ready to reveal it. Not yet. The response tells me nothing and everything at once: she's learned to give answers that sound complete while revealing nothing of substance.
More time passes. I can hear the distant sounds of the warehouse—my men moving equipment, the low hum of generators, the occasional crackle of radio chatter. Normal operating sounds, but nothing about this situation feels normal anymore.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, there's a soft knock on the door. Dr. Reeves enters, carrying a manila folder thatcontains the results that will either confirm our assumptions or shatter them entirely.
"Well, Doctor?" I ask, though something in his expression already tells me this conversation is about to take an unexpected turn.
Dr. Reeves glances at Alessia, then back to me, his professional composure intact but something uncertain in his eyes. "Perhaps we should speak privately first?"
"No." The word comes from Alessia, sharp and final. "Whatever it is, I want to hear it."
I study her face, see the way she's bracing herself as if for a physical blow. My instincts, honed by years of reading people in life-or-death situations, suddenly start screaming that we're about to enter completely uncharted territory.
"Tell us," I command.
Dr. Reeves opens the folder, his movements deliberate and careful. "The blood work is conclusive," he says, his voice carrying the weight of irrefutable fact. "No elevated hormone levels. No signs of pregnancy, recent or otherwise."
The words hit the room like a bomb detonating in slow motion.
