Page 25 of Savage Vows

Unlike last night’s rebellion, I decide to dress with more care.

I slip into a pair of tailored black slacks that skim my body without clinging. Then I pull on a pale pink sweater so soft it feels like wearing a cloud. They both fit perfectly.

By the time I’ve tamed my wild curls into submission and applied the lightest touch of makeup, I feel more like myself, more in control. But the illusion shatters when I realize I’ll be face-to-face with Matteo in a few minutes.

I sink into a nearby chair, my pulse accelerating as memories of last night flood back. When he walked me to my room, I told myself I didn’t want to be kissed by him. But when he leaned forward, and I saw the spark of desire in his eyes—like amber lit from within—and inhaled his powerfully masculine scent, I was lost. The deep rumble of his voice had vibrated through me, awakening something primal I hadn’t known existed.

The moment I locked the door, as he’d ordered, I slumped against the wall, my fingers pressed to my swollen lips as I struggled to hold onto my composure. My entire body had been humming with awareness, every nerve ending alive and dancing. If he hadn’t pulled back when he did, I’m not sure I would have stopped him. The memory of his arousal, hard and insistent against me, sends another wave of heat through my body. I’d felt an answering spark of desire so intense it had frightened me. In that moment, I’d wanted everything he had to offer, consequences be damned.

Even now, hours later, my body betrays me with its response to the memory. I press my cool palms to my heated cheeks, trying to regain control. I can’t afford to let him affect me this way. He represents everything I’ve spent years running from—the violence, the control, the darkness that stole my mother. No matter how he makes me feel, I can’t let myself forget that.

After a breath to steady myself—not that it helps—I open the door.

Surprising me, there’s no soldier in the hallway. I remind myself that that doesn’t mean I have any more freedom than I did when I was being guarded.

I enter the formal dining room, and the sight of Matteo stops me in my tracks. He’s standing near the buffet, pouring coffee with the casual grace of someone who knows his power and wears it like a crown. After all, he is Mafia royalty.

Obviously sensing me, he turns. He’s holding a sterling silver coffee carafe.

His suit is impeccably tailored, but his collar is open, and his tie is absent. The glimpse of his throat, that small concession to informality, reminds me of last night. It’s strangely intimate. Devastatingly attractive. His presence fills the room and my life like a gathering storm—beautiful, threatening, impossible to ignore.

With a small smile, he sweeps his gaze over me.

I hate how my pulse jumps, how my body responds to him against my will. He emanates raw power, like a predator at rest.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice smooth and rich as aged whiskey. “Did you sleep well?”

His eyes capture mine, and for a moment, I’m lost. Something untamed lurks there, despite his carefully polished exterior. The contradiction draws me in even as it warns me away. His jaw is shadowed with the faintest hint of stubble, making him look rougher, more dangerous than last night. The open collar of his shirt reveals the strong column of his throat and a delicate gold chain I hadn’t noticed before.

My chest tightens. Does he know how I tossed and turned, haunted by memories of his kiss? How I’d pressed my fingers to my lips, still feeling the ghost of his mouth on mine? How I’d struggled with the terrifying knowledge that part of me had wanted him to come back?

I manage a stiff nod, unwilling to give him more, though my body betrays me with a shiver when his gaze lingers.

“Coffee?”

Anything to break this tension and distract me from my memories.“Please.”

He pours a cup for me. “Cream?”

I see small markers, indicating a couple of different flavors. “The vanilla creamer.”

He grins slightly. “I should have guessed, after the hot chocolate last night.”

“Sugar is my favorite food group.”

“It is vegetarian,” he acknowledges with a grin.

His hands are large, capable of such violence, yet he handles the fine china with surprising gentleness.

He extends the cup to me, and our fingers brush. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, and I nearly drop the delicate porcelain.

A hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth as he watches my reaction, and something molten kindles in his gaze. I think he knows exactly what he does to me, and that is slightly terrifying.

The breakfast spread before us on the buffet is nothing short of a feast. With the time I’ve spent at Elysian Hall, I know how much work went into the preparation. Steam rises from covered dishes, and there are platters of pastries, including chocolate-filled croissants, and bowls filled with fresh berries glistening with dew. There’s even frittatas with fresh veggies.

I guess he wasn’t taking any chances on me refusing to eat.

It’s another considerate gesture that makes it harder to see him as the enemy. Harshly I remind myself that tender moments, thoughtful gestures, don’t erase the violence and control that defines his world.

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