Page 57 of Savage Reckoning
CHAPTER NINETEEN
LEA
I awaketo the soft glow of morning light filtering through the blinds, casting stripes across Nico’s sleeping form. For a moment, I simply watch him—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the relaxed curve of his mouth. Sleep has stripped away the controlled composure he wears like armor, revealing something unguarded.
A knot forms in my chest, an emotion I refuse to name.This isn’t real. None of it.
I force myself to remember the folder. The photographs. The handwritten order for my father’s death, penned in the elegant script of the man sleeping beside me. The same hands that touched me with such tenderness last night once signed my father’s death warrant.
The thought should be enough to turn my heart to stone. Instead, a wave of sickness and confusion washes over me. How can the man who holds me with such care be capable of suchcold brutality? How can I feel this pull toward someone who destroyed my family?
Because you’re just like him,a voice in my head says.A liar. A manipulator. Playing whatever role serves your purpose.
I need to focus. Today is about cementing his trust before tomorrow night. Isabel’s words replay in my mind:“Just make sure Nico is occupied. And unarmed.”The brutal simplicity of the instruction leaves no room for what happens when I lead him into that trap.
Justice for my father. That’s what I’ve wanted for six years. That’s what I’ve sacrificed everything for. So why does the thought of victory feel like swallowing broken glass?
Nico stirs, his breathing changing. I make my decision. Pushing the turmoil down deep, I slide closer, my hand tracing the defined muscles of his abdomen. His skin is warm, a living contrast to my cold intentions.
His eyes flutter open. When they find mine, they soften in a way that makes my breath catch.
“Good morning,” I say softly, pressing my lips to his chest, just above his heart. I feel its rhythm quickens.
A slow smile curves his mouth as his hand finds my hair. “A very good morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
I let my hand wander lower, watching his eyes darken. This is a language I’ve learned to speak. I know the pressure points of his hunger, the gestures that break his control. I’ve studied him, learning what makes him groan, what makes him forget his dominance and simply feel.
I use all of it now. My lips trace the scars on his chest, my teeth graze the sensitive skin of his throat. I position myself above him, taking control in a way I know both arouses and intrigues him.
“What’s this?” he asks, his hands finding my hips as I straddle him.
“Gratitude,” I lie, the word ash on my tongue. “For finding me. For saving me.”
His expression becomes possessive, a look that would have terrified me once. Now I recognize it as power—my power over him. I lower myself onto him with deliberate slowness, watching his eyes close briefly. When they open again, they lock on mine with an intensity that threatens to undo me.
“Lea,” he breathes, my name a prayer and a curse.
I set a rhythm designed to drive thought from both of our minds. And it works—perhaps too well. My body betrays me, responding with an honesty I can’t suppress. Each stroke, each whispered endearment in Italian pulls me further from my goal into something dangerous and real.
I focus on the mechanics—angle, pressure, tempo—trying to maintain a distance even as our bodies close it. But when his hand cups my face, thumb tracing my lower lip with unexpected tenderness, my defenses fail.
“Look at me,” he commands softly.
I do, and what I see in his eyes shatters something inside me. There’s desire, yes, but beneath it burns something I’ve never seen before. Something naked, honest, and frighteningly close to devotion.
My climax catches me by surprise, tearing through me with an intensity that brings tears to my eyes. He follows immediately, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise, my name a hoarse cry. For a suspended moment, the lies fall away, leaving something so raw I can hardly bear it.
Then reality returns, and I collapse onto his chest, hiding my face against his neck while I struggle to rebuild my walls. His arms wrap around me.
“If that’s gratitude,” he murmurs against my skin, “I should rescue you more often.”
The casual reference sends a chill through me. The man holding me has no idea that less than twenty-four hours from now, I will lead him to his death.
Remember the folder. Remember what he did to Dad.
I force a light laugh. “Once was enough, thank you.”
I shift to lie beside him, my head on his shoulder, my fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. Each touch is a lie.
