Page 11 of His Savage Ruin
"You seem to be under the impression that you have a choice in this matter," he says, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of a man who's never been denied anything he truly wanted.
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
Before I can react, he's moving. His hands close around my upper arms, firm but not brutal, calculated to control without causing damage. He lifts me from the chair as if I weigh nothing, ignoring my attempts to twist away. And despite myself, I feel the heat of him, the solid strength of muscle under expensive fabric. It jolts through me—unwanted, dangerous, undeniable.
“Put me down!”
“No.”
His refusal is quiet, final, the word vibrating against me like another restraint. He doesn’t even seem winded by my struggles, his breathing maddeningly steady as he kicks open the door, carrying me toward whatever hell awaits
The autumn air hits my face as we emerge from the warehouse, and I see a convoy of black SUVs waiting in the shadows. Men with guns stand at alert positions, their eyes scanning the darkness for threats.
This cannot be happening.
As Matteo carries me toward the lead vehicle, I catch a glimpse of his face in the pale moonlight. There's something almost careful in the way he holds me, making sure I don't strike my head on the car door as he maneuvers me inside.
But his eyes are still cold as winter steel, and I know I'm about to discover exactly what kind of hell awaits me in his domain.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alessia
The leather seats of the SUV are buttery soft against my skin, but they might as well be steel bars for all the comfort they provide. The moment we're inside, I try to put distance between us, pressing myself against the opposite door, but Matteo's arm shoots out, his hand closing around my wrist.
"Don't," he says quietly, his grip firm but not painful. "Sit still."
"Let go of me," I demand, trying to twist away from his hold.
But I might as well be fighting granite. His other arm comes around my waist, not too roughly but with absolute certainty, pulling me back from the door and holding me in place beside him. I'm pressed against his side now, trapped between his body and the seat, acutely aware of his warmth seeping through the expensive fabric of his sweater.
"I said sit still," he repeats, his voice carrying that maddening calm that makes me want to scream.
I struggle against his hold, my body twisting and fighting like a trapped animal, but it only makes him tighten his grip fractionally. His arm around my waist is like steel, immovable, and I can feel the controlled strength in the way he contains my movements.
"Let me out," I say, hating how breathless I sound.
"No." He doesn't even look at me, his attention focused on something outside the tinted windows, but his hold on me never wavers.
The proximity is maddening—I can smell his cologne, feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, sense the coiled power in the muscles pressed against me. Despite everything, despite the fear and anger and desperate situation, my treacherous body responds to his closeness with a heat I haven't felt in... ever.
I test the door handle with my free hand—locked, of course.
"Where are you taking me?" I demand, trying to ignore the way his thumb traces an absent pattern against my wrist.
"Somewhere safe."
"Safe from who? I am being kidnapped."
"Safe from the people who would kill you the moment they discover your deception," he replies, finally turning those eyes on me. The movement brings his face closer, close enough that I can see the dark flecks in his irises. "Which, in case you've forgotten, is everyone except the people in this car."
He's right, and we both know it. Without the pregnancy lie, I'm worth nothing to the Morettis. Less than nothing—I'm a liability who knows too much and has outlived her usefulness.
"I need water," I say, my throat suddenly dry as sand.
"Ask nicely."
The words spark fury in my chest. "I'm not a child."
