Page 17 of Ruthless Silence
Let the real wedding night begin.
8 - Ana
The darkness swallows me whole as I step into Dante’s domain.
My body freezes just past the threshold, wedding dress rustling in the silence. The room breathes with unseen threats, shadows thick enough to hide anything. A killer. A bed. The rest of my life stretching out in this blackness.
Behind me, Dante moves. His presence fills the doorway, blocking retreat. Then his arm reaches past me, his chest brushing my back as he stretches for something on the wall. The contact jolts through me: solid muscle, unexpected warmth, the scent of him surrounding me. Cigarettes and expensive cologne mixed with something darker. My nipples tighten traitorously against the wedding dress, and I know he must feel my sharp intake of breath. I can't move. We're suspended in this moment, predator and prey, except I can't tell which one I am.
The lights flick on.
I blink against the sudden brightness, taking in the space that will be my prison. Or my battlefield. The master suite unfolds in masculine elegance. Dark leather furniture dominates the room, a massive four-poster bed that could hide weapons in every corner, walls lined with books I'll never be able to read in English. Everything speaks of control, wealth, power held in check.
The windows draw my eye. Floor to ceiling glass overlooking the manicured grounds, guards patrolling below like ants. A beautiful cage with a perfect view of everything I can't reach.
My suitcase sits by the dresser, looking pathetically small in this vast space. Everything I own, my entire life, reduced to one bag in his territory.
Dante moves past me with fluid grace, claiming the room with every step. His jacket comes off in smooth movements, hung precisely in the closet. The domestic ritual feels strange after watching him correct my knife technique mere hours ago. His hands work his cuffs, rolling sleeves to reveal forearms corded with muscle. I shouldn't notice. Shouldn't care. But my traitorous body details every line.
"Where is bathroom?" My signs feel clumsy, exhaustion making my fingers thick.
He points to a door on the far wall, then moves to a massive desk and begins writing something. Dismissing me. Or giving me space. I can't read him, this silent husband who teaches his assassin proper form.
The bathroom door locks with a satisfying click. My first real privacy since the church.
I lean against the wood, letting myself breathe. Truly breathe. The bathroom unfolds in marble luxury, a shower that could fit four people, a tub deep enough to drown in. Everything pristine white and gold, nothing like our simple apartment in Rome with its cracked tiles and temperamental hot water that Papa always promised to fix.
My reflection in the mirror stops me cold. Wedding dress wrinkled from our struggle, makeup smeared, his ring heavy on my finger. I'm Mrs.Rosetti now. The name sits like acid on my tongue. Papa would weep to see his daughter bearing the enemy's name.
My hands shake as I reach beneath my dress, finding the leather holster cutting into my thigh. Papa's blade slides free, still there, still sharp. He let me keep it. After I tried to kill him,after he corrected my grip, after everything, he still let me walk into his bedroom armed.
Why?
The dried blood on my wrist catches the light. Just a thin line where his grip redirected my attack. He could have broken my wrist, could have made me pay for the assassination attempt. Instead, he was careful. Controlled. Absolute power wielded with precision that left barely a mark.
A footstep sounds from the bedroom. Then nothing. Just his presence, waiting.
I wash the blood away, watching pink water swirl down the drain. The bruise forming underneath is faint, finger-shaped. His mark on my skin. Tomorrow it will purple. Tomorrow I'll carry his touch visible on my body.
When I exit, Dante sits in a leather chair by the fireplace, watching the door. Waiting for me. A folded note lies on the bed, his precise handwriting visible even from here.
I approach slowly, ready to dodge if this is when he strikes. But he remains still, those dark eyes tracking my movement without threat. Just observation. Like I'm something to be studied.
The note unfolds in my trembling fingers:
This is your room. I will not touch you without permission. The closet has been cleared for your things. Breakfast is at 7 AM. You're free to roam(I have to look that word up on my cell phone)except the third floor—that's Luca's domain. Guards will follow if you leave. For protection, not imprisonment. The bed is yours. I'll take the chair.
I read it twice, looking for the trap. The deception. The part where he claims his rights as a husband.
The chair? He's giving me the bed while he… what? Stands guard? Protects me? Or protects himself from me?My exhausted brain can't untangle his game, but my body recognizes the insult, or is it respect? in his distance.
"Why chair?" I sign, the question escaping before I can stop it.
His hands move in response, that almost-smile playing at his lips: "You need sleep to kill me properly tomorrow."
The dark humor of it makes something twist in my chest. Is he mocking me? Playing with his food before he devours it? Or does he actually want me rested for another attempt?
I open my suitcase while he watches from his chair, the weight of his attention making my skin prickle.
