Page 27 of Ruined By Blood
"Don't—" I start to protest.
"Too late," he says, lifting me from the seat as though I weigh nothing.
I should fight, scratch, scream. Αnything to assert somecontrol. Instead, I find myself frozen. Just like I do every single time someone makes me do something I don't want to.
His chest is solid against my side.
"This could have been avoided if you'd just walked," he says, kicking the car door shut with his foot. His voice rumbles through his chest and against my ribs.
Heat crawls up my neck as he carries me toward the house. "I can walk now."
"And miss this moment?" He glances down, eyes glittering in the moonlight. "Not a chance, piccola."
The way the Italian endearment rolls off his tongue sends an unwelcome shiver through me. I force myself to look away from his face, those dangerous eyes.
He manages the front door one-handed, never loosening his grip on me, and steps into the dark house. After a moment, lights flicker on automatically.
"Welcome to your temporary home," Enzo says, finally setting me down in what appears to be a spacious entryway. My legs feel unsteady beneath me as his hands leave my body.
The cabin is nothing like I expected—modern luxury disguised as rustic charm. Polished wooden floors stretch before us, leading to an open-concept living area with cathedral ceilings.
"Feel free to look around while I bring in our supplies," he says, gesturing broadly. "Food, clothes, necessities. I'll be making several trips."
I remain rooted to the spot, unsure if this is some kind of test.
"Go on," he encourages. "The place is secure—no point trying to run into those woods at night. You'd be lost in minutes, if the wildlife didn't get you first."
With that cheerful warning, he turns and heads back outside.
I wait until I hear him at the car before I move, drawn toward what looks like a kitchen at the back of the house. My footsteps echo in the silence as I step into the space.
The kitchen is all warm woods and gleaming copper. A large farmhouse sink sits beneath a window that must overlook the forest during daylight. Copper pots hang from a rack above a massive island, and the stone countertops look worn from actual use.
It reminds me, painfully, of my mother's kitchen from before—the one she'd designed herself when I was small. Before my father gutted the space and replaced it with something cold and impersonal, erasing her presence from our home just as he'd tried to erase her from my memory.
I run my fingers along the wooden island, feeling its smooth, worn surface. This is a kitchen where people actually cook, where they gather and talk. Not like the showpiece in my father's house, used only by staff who disappear the moment their tasks are complete.
CHAPTER 11
Istep back inside the cabin, arms full of bags. Sienna stands by the wide kitchen window, fingers tracing the wooden trim that frames the glass. She's a haunted silhouette against the dark forest outside, all long lines and tension. Her shoulders hunch slightly, like she's trying to make herself smaller—invisible, even.
The door closes behind me with a soft thud, and she startles, spinning to face me. For a split second, her mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of something raw in her expression before she rebuilds her walls.
"Find anything interesting?" I ask, setting the bagson the counter.
She shakes her head, eyes darting to the bags then back to me. "No."
But she's lying. Something about this kitchen has touched a nerve. Her fingers still rest against the window frame, and there's a softness to her mouth that wasn't there before.
I unpack quickly, setting out essentials. "You hungry?"
"No." The same flat response, but her eyes follow my movements.
"You'll need to eat eventually, piccola."
I watch her as I put away the last items. She's still standing by that window, looking lost and small in clothes that don't belong to her. The sadness radiating from her is almost tangible—a heavy, living thing filling the room.
"I need a shower," I say, breaking the silence. "Been a long day."
