Page 39 of Ruined By Blood
Sienna doesn't reach for it. Instead, she shakes her head gently.
"No. It's private. I shouldn't have?—"
"Take it," I insist, pushing it toward her. "Just don't write in it. Don't dog-ear the pages."
Her fingers brush against mine as she accepts the book, sending an electric current up my arm. She cradles it like something precious, like she understands exactly what she's holding.
"I'll be careful with it," she promises.
I watch Sienna's face as she holds the book, her fingers tracing the edge with surprising gentleness.
"It seems I'm not the only one with parent issues," she says quietly, her eyes meeting mine.
"Yeah," I admit, leaning against the bookcase. "I guess we all have our ghosts."
She nods, looking down at the book again. "Your mother... is she?—?"
"Dead," I confirm, the word still bitter on my tongue even after all these years. "She and my father both."
Sienna's face softens with genuine sympathy.
We stand in silence for a moment.
She clears her throat. "I should go take a shower."
"There are towels in the cabinet under the sink." I say.
As she turns to go, a mischievous impulse overtakes me—anything to break the heaviness of the moment. "Need any company? I've been told my back-scrubbing skills are exceptional."
I expect her to flinch or retreat behind her walls. Instead, she pauses, looking back over her shoulder with something almost like amusement in her eyes.
"I think I can manage on my own," she says dryly. "But thank you for the generous offer."
Something that might be the ghost of a smile flickers across her face before she walks away, leaving me staring after her.
CHAPTER 15
Steam billows around me as I turn off the shower, reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth. The water pressure is perfect. Strong enough to massage away tension but gentle on my bruises. I stand there for a moment, letting droplets race down my skin, savoring this simple freedom.
I wrap myself in the oversized towel hanging on the rack—fluffy and expensive like everything else in this place. The bathroom is fogged with steam, the mirror completely clouded over. I wipe a circle in the condensation and find my reflection staring back.
My wet hair hangs in dark tendrils around my face.
Did you really just tease Enzo Feretti?
The woman in the mirror looks asconfused as I feel. Back there, in the living room, I'd responded to his shower joke without thinking. It felt normal. Natural. The words had tumbled out before my usual filters could catch them.
I press my fingertips to the mirror, tracing the outline of my face. How long has it been since I spoke to a man without calculating every word?
I finish drying myself and step out of the steamy bathroom into what I thought was an empty bedroom. The cool air hits my damp skin, and I let the towel drop to the floor, reaching for the folded t-shirt on the bed.
My heart stops.
Enzo stands by the dresser, frozen, a stack of clothes in his hands. His eyes widen, locked not on my naked body but on the network of scars crossing my torso.
I can't move.
Can't breathe.
