Page 29 of Ruined By Blood
It's fucking dangerous—to her, to me, to everyone involved.
I shut off the water with more force than necessary, grabbing a towel and drying off quickly. Droplets catch in the black ink of my tattoos, tracing paths through the symbols of violence and protection that mark my skin.
My hand stills over the sword and rose on my chest. The duality of my nature—violence and beauty, death and life. The reminder that I destroy as much as I protect.
Is that what she sees when she looks at me? The monster? Or does she sense something else?
Istand in the kitchen, staring at Enzo's retreating back as he disappears upstairs, his comment about me joining him in the shower still hanging in the air. The sheer arrogance of the man is infuriating. What, just because he saved me and brought me to this cabin, he thinks I'm going to fall at his feet like every other woman probably does?
My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I've spent my entire life being treated like property, and here he is making suggestive comments like I'm just another conquest. Sure, he's handsome—objectively speaking—with that perfectly sculpted face and those intense eyes that seem to see right through me. But I've seen handsome men before. I've been paraded in front of them, offered up like a prize.
Arrogant.
Does he think I'm that easy to manipulate? That I'll be so grateful for his protection that I'll willingly climb into his bed?
The thought makes my stomach turn. I've been used too many times to count, treated like nothing more than a bargaining chip or a pretty face to seal my father's deals. The last thing I need is another man who sees me as something to possess.
I wait until I'm sure Enzo is occupied with his shower before making my way upstairs. He didn't tell me where my bedroom might be.
At the end of the hall, I find what must be a guest bedroom. Unlike the rest of the cabin with its personal touches this room feels neutral. The walls are a soft beige, the bedding a generic navy blue. No photos, no personal items, nothing to suggest it belongs to anyone in particular.
Perfect.
I close the door softly behind me and lean against it, finally letting out the breath I've been holding.
The bed looks inviting after the stress of the failed escape attempt and the tense car ride. I move toward it and sit on the edge, testing the mattress. It's firm but comfortable.
I lie back, sinking into the clean-smelling comforter, and stare at the ceiling. The smooth, blank surface above me matches how I wish my mind could be—empty of all the complications and fears swirling through it. Instead, my thoughts keep circling back to Enzo Feretti and his infuriating confidence.
Did he really think that suggestive comment would make me blush and simper like the women who probably throw themselves at him?
I close my eyes, trying to push away the anger buildinginside me. I need to stay clearheaded. Getting emotional about Enzo's behavior won't help me figure a way out of this situation. I need to focus on surviving, on finding a way to truly escape—not just from this cabin but from my father, from Cortez, from all of it.
I roll onto my side, tucking my hands under my cheek as exhaustion washes over me. Despite the fear still thrumming beneath my skin, there's something about this room that feels safe. Maybe it's the clean sheets or the softness of the mattress. Whatever it is, I feel my muscles gradually unwinding, tension seeping from my body.
A soft click breaks the silence.
My eyes snap open as the bathroom door swings inward. Enzo steps into the room, his hair still damp from the shower, water droplets clinging to his broad shoulders.
My breath catches in my throat.
He's wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, the white fabric stark against his tanned skin. I should look away, should scramble off the bed and demand he leave, but I can't seem to move. My eyes are traitors, following the defined lines of his chest—the sculpted muscle dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail disappearing beneath the towel.
His body is a canvas of ink. On his chest, a sword pierces through a black rose, blood dripping onto prayer hands beneath. The word "VENDETTA" follows his jawline in bold lettering.
My gaze drifts to the droplets of water still working their way down the ridges of his abdomen, to the sharp V of muscle disappearing beneath that precariously low towel?—
"Notice anything appealing, piccola?"
Heat floods my cheeks as my eyes snap up to meet his.Amusement dances in those dark depths, along with something warmer, hungrier. He knows exactly what he's doing, standing there like some sculpture of a Greek god coming to life.
"I—" My voice fails me.
His lips curve into a slow, devastating smile. "Seems you've chosen the wrong room." He gestures around with one hand while the other keeps the towel in place. "This happens to be mine."
"Yours?" I choke out, bolt upright now, mortification replacing whatever spell had momentarily captured me. "But it's... it doesn't look..."
"Personal?" He shrugs, the movement rippling down the defined muscles of his chest. "I prefer to keep this room simple."
