Page 36 of Ruined By Blood
Iwatch her eat, a small smile creasing her lips as she takes another bite of the carbonara. Something about seeing Sienna enjoy food I prepared makes my chest tighten in a way that's becoming dangerously familiar.
Fuck.
Caterina's face flashes through my mind without warning. Those wide innocent eyes that looked at me like I hung the moon. The way she'd thread her fingers through mine and whisper that I was different from the rumors. Better. Redeemable.
What a fucking joke that turned out to be.
"This is really good," Sienna says, drawing me back to the present. "Thank you."
I nod, but my mind is elsewhere, dragging up memories I've worked hard to bury.
Caterina. Daughter of a business associate. Smart, beautiful, seemingly genuine. I'd actually believed she saw the man beneath the reputation. Turns out she only saw an opportunity. The moment she got what she wanted she was gone.
Left me with nothing but a hard lesson about trust and a mess that took months to clean up.
The only woman I've ever trusted has made me regret it.
So why the fuck am I sitting here at three in the morning, sharing a meal and pieces of myself with Henry Sterling's daughter?
I study Sienna's profile as she takes another bite. She's dangerous—not because she could physically harm me, but because somehow, she's slipping past defenses I've spent years fortifying.
I watch Sienna take the last bite of her pasta, scraping the fork against the plate to catch every bit of sauce.
"Here, let me," I say, standing and reaching for her empty plate.
"I can do it," she protests, but I've already taken it.
She rises from her seat, grabbing her own glass and following me to the sink. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, her presence taking up space in ways that have nothing to do with her physical form.
As I rinse the plates, she sidles up next to me, reaching for a dish towel hanging on the oven handle. The movement causes her oversized t-shirt to ride up slightly, exposing more of her legs. My eyes trail downward against my better judgment.
Long, smooth legs that seem to go on forever.
I swallow hard and force my gaze back to the sink, but not before she notices. Her cheeks flush pink, but she doesn't move away or tug at the hem. It feels like some kind of test—for her or for me, I'm not sure.
"You missed a spot," she says quietly, reaching over to point at a bit of sauce still clinging to the plate.
Our hands brush under the running water. Cold liquid, warm skin. The contrast hits like electricity, and I feel her freeze beside me.
I turn my head to look at her, finding her already staring up at me. Her eyes are wide, uncertain.
The water continues running, forgotten.
I've killed men for looking at me wrong. I've commanded crews and territories with nothing but a glance. I've built walls around myself that no one has breached in years.
Yet here I am, coming completely undone by her eyes looking at me.
I lean in, just a fraction. Her breath catches. She doesn't back away. Another inch closer and I can feel her breath warm against my face. Her lips part slightly, and I'm lost in the moment, drawn to her like gravity.
What the fuck am I doing?
The thought crashes through me like ice water. I jerk back suddenly, turning away to shut off the faucet with more force than necessary. Water splashes across the countertop.
I step back, creating distance between us that feels both necessary and painful. The kitchen seems to shrink around us, air growing thick with tension. Sienna's eyes remain fixed on me, confusion dancing across her features.
"I'm sorry," I say, the words tasting unfamiliar on mytongue. Men in my position don't apologize—it's a sign of weakness. I wouldn't care less right now.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous gesture I've noticed she does when uncomfortable. "It's okay," she whispers. "You were gentle either way."
