Page 38 of Ruined By Blood
Cazzo.
I remain frozen, my gaze traveling over her. Her hair falls loose down her back. It looks soft, begging for fingers to run through it. My fingers.
Heat floods my system, blood rushing south so fast it makes me dizzy. The primal part of my brain conjures vivid images before I can stop them—her body pressed against the bookshelf, my hands gripping her hips, her legs wrapped around my waist. The taste of her skin under my mouth, the sounds she'd make as I claimed every inch of her.
I drag a hand down my face, trying to regain control. She's not mine. She's a woman who's been treated like property. A survivor who needs protection, not another man looking at her like she's something to possess.
I force my gaze to the floor, trying to focus on the intricate pattern of the rug instead of the curve of her ass.
Not to fulfill the fantasies currently blazing through my mind.
I clear my throat to announce my presence, expecting her to startle.
She doesn't jump or turn. No reaction at all. She's completely lost in whatever book she's found, fingers tracing over something on the page with a reverence that makes my chest tighten.
Perfect opportunity.
I move silently across the room, my footsteps soundless against the thick rug. When I'm directly behind her, close enough to catch the scent of the soap she used, I lean in and whisper near her ear.
"Boo."
She gasps, the book tumbling from her hands as she spins around. Her back hits the bookshelf hard, eyes wide with terror. Her breath comes in sharp, short pants.
"Oh! Don't—don't do that!" Her voice quivers, one hand pressed against her chest.
The flash of genuine fear in her eyes makes me regret my childish impulse. I hold up my hands, palms out.
"Sorry," I say, stepping back to give her space. "Didn't mean to scare you."
Her eyes narrow slightly, not believing me.
"Okay, maybe I meant to startle you a little. Not... that." I gesture to her trembling hands.
Her gaze drops to the fallen book between us, andsomething in my chest freezes. The familiar worn leather binding, the faded gold lettering on the spine.
"East of Eden," she says, noticing my fixed stare. "I was just?—"
I reach down and snatch it up before she can touch it again. My fingers curl around the book possessively, protectively. The familiar weight of it in my hand sends a pulse of grief through me.
"This isn't for reading," I say, my voice sharper than intended.
She flinches slightly, confusion replacing the lingering fear in her eyes.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was special." Her voice is soft, cautious.
I run my thumb over the worn edge, feeling the ghost of another hand that once held it just as lovingly. The margins filled with my mother's elegant script, her thoughts and reactions to passages that moved her.
The last thing I have with her handwriting.
"It was my mother's," I say finally, the words scraping my throat raw.
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "Oh." She glances at the book, then back at my face. "I noticed the notes. Her handwriting is beautiful."
Was. Her handwritingwasbeautiful.
"You can..." I swallow hard, forcing the words past the knot in my throat. "You can read it. Just be careful with it."
I hold the book out, an offering I've never made to anyone else. Not even Lucrezia or Damiano have touched this book since she died.
