Page 37 of Ruined By Blood
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. Gentle. When was the last time someone described me that way?
Sienna's looking at me like I'm something other than what I am—a killer, an enforcer, the sword of the Feretti family. Not gentle. Never gentle.
Except with her, apparently.
"I need to make some calls," I say abruptly, desperate to escape the sudden intimacy of the moment. The pile of dishes can wait. Everything can wait. I need air, space, distance from those blue eyes that see too much.
CHAPTER 14
Iwalk from the kitchen through the hallway, my fingers brushing against the polished wood paneling.
The living room opens before me. A massive fireplace dominates one wall, cold and dark now, but I can imagine how it would transform the space when lit. The furniture is expensive but worn in just the right places—a deep leather sofa with throw pillows, armchairs positioned for conversation, and a thick rug that feels like heaven under my bare feet.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the darkness outside, and I catch my reflection—a ghost of myself staring back. I wrap my arms around my middle, suddenly cold despite the cabin's warmth.
Was he going to kissme?
The question burns through me like wildfire. The memory of Enzo's calloused fingers brushing against mine under the running water, his dark eyes dropping to my lips, his body leaning toward mine before he jerked away—it all replays in vivid detail.
And the most terrifying part? For one breathless moment, I wanted him to.
I sink onto the sofa, pulling a cashmere throw blanket around my shoulders. The fabric smells faintly of cedar and something distinctly male—Enzo's scent.
This isn't right.
The sound of his deep voice travels from another room, too muffled to make out words but clear enough to remind me he's still here. Still the dangerous man who carries a gun, who caught me mid-escape, who has his own agenda I can't begin to understand.
I curl deeper into the blanket, torn between contradictory instincts. Part of me screams to maintain distance, to never trust, to remember that desire makes you vulnerable. Another part, buried so deep I barely recognize it, wonders what it might feel like to be touched by hands that aren't seeking to own or hurt me.
Don't be stupid, Sienna.
This cabin, this temporary safety—it's just that. Temporary. Whatever I think I saw in Enzo's eyes, whatever I think I felt when our hands touched, none of it matters. The moment he learns exactly what my father does to me, Enzo will make the smart choice and hand me over.
I rise from the sofa and move toward the bookshelves lining one wall, running my fingers along leather-bound spines. Classic literature, history books, even some photography collections. Another contradiction in this man I can't figure out.
I pull a leather-bound book from the shelf, attracted by its worn spine and the faded gold lettering that reads "The Great American Landscape." The weight of it feels substantial in my hands. I run my fingers over the textured cover, tracing the embossed title.
Photography books. I didn't expect to find these here.
I carefully open it to find stunning black and white photographs of desolate landscapes—empty prairies, abandoned farmhouses, lonely mountains. The images speak to something deep inside me, capturing the same isolation I try to photograph myself.
My eyes drift back to the shelves, scanning other titles. There's an entire section dedicated to photography—collections by Ansel Adams, Annie Leibovitz, Robert Frank, names I recognize and admire.
I slide the first book back and pull out another one—"Abandoned America"—my fingers trembling slightly. The photographs inside show forgotten places: shuttered factories with broken windows, empty asylum corridors, decaying theaters where the seats still wait for an audience that will never come.
These images feel like looking into a mirror. Empty spaces holding the memory of what used to be.
I continue browsing, discovering sections of classic literature alongside modern fiction. Dostoyevsky next to Stephen King. Shakespeare beside John Grisham. Another shelf holds history books, biographies, and philosophy texts.
My fingers pause on a collection of Italian poetry. I slide it partway out, curious, then hesitate and push it back.
Instead, I pull out a well-worn copy of "East of Eden." The pages are dog-eared, with small pencil notes in the margins. Someone has underlined passages and madesmall notations. I trace one of the markings with my fingertip, trying to decipher the small, precise handwriting.
I wonder about the human who would underline "We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the never-ending contest in ourselves of good and evil."
Ifind her in the living room, standing before the bookshelf, silhouetted against the warm glow of the reading lamp. She doesn't hear me approach—too absorbed in whatever book she's holding, her slender fingers tracing the spine.
My eyes trace the delicate line of her neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders, the subtle dip of her waist.
