Page 12 of His Savage Ruin
"Then stop behaving like one." He adjusts his cuff with a precise movement, and I flinch involuntarily as his hand moves near me.
The reaction is automatic, born from months of living with Lorenzo's unpredictable violence, and I hate that this man—this stranger who's supposedly my enemy—has witnessed it. Hate the way his eyes sharpen with interest, cataloging yet another piece of information about me.
"I don't hurt women or children," he says quietly, his voice carrying an odd note of something. "You don't need to fear that from me."
"How reassuring," I snap, but some of the tension leaves my shoulders. There's something in his tone, in the way he deliberately moves his hands away from me, that suggests he's telling the truth.
"Water," I say again, this time without the demand.
He reaches into a compartment beside his seat and produces a bottle of expensive Italian mineral water, the kind Lorenzo used to import by the case. The twist cap opens with a soft hiss, and he hands it to me without comment.
I drink greedily, not realizing how thirsty I was until the cool liquid hits my mouth. The water soothes my raw throat, but it does nothing for the pounding in my skull—a dull reminder of the blow I took. It tastes like freedom and hope.
As I drink, I study him from the corner of my eye. Not a single hair is out of place despite everything that's happened—the warehouse, carrying me to the car, my struggles during the first part of this ride. His black sweater fits perfectly, his jaw is clean-shaven, his hands are immaculate. Even his breathing is controlled, measured.
"Do you ever look anything less than perfect?" I ask before I can stop myself.
His mouth quirks in what might be amusement. "Mess doesn't do anyone any good."
"That's a very... controlled way to live."
"Control keeps people alive in my world."
Before I can respond, the world explodes into chaos.
The SUV lurches violently to the right as something massive slams into our left side. My body flies across the seat, and only Matteo's lightning-fast reflexes keep me from smashing into the window. His arm shoots out, pressing me back against the seat with enough force to drive the air from my lungs.
"Down!" he barks, his voice completely transformed from the controlled calm of moments before. This is command, pure and simple, backed by the kind of authority that comes from life-or-death situations.
Through the side window, I catch a glimpse of a black motorcycle, the rider's face hidden behind a dark helmet. More bikes appear, flanking us on both sides, and I hear the distinctive crack of gunfire over the screaming of tires against asphalt.
Our driver—a mountain of a man whose name I never learned—jerks the wheel hard to the left, throwing us into a controlled skid that somehow avoids the next volley of bullets. The SUV behind us moves to block the pursuing vehicles while our driver punches the accelerator.
"Morettis," Matteo says, his voice deadly calm despite the bullets spider-webbing the rear window. "They're trying to retrieve their asset."
Asset. That's what I am to both sides—a thing to be possessed, not a person to be protected. Like hell, they will all think of me as an asset!
I don’t have enough time to spend on the thought as another motorcycle appears directly in front of us, the rider raising something that glints metallically in the moonlight. A gun, aimed directly at our windshield.
Our driver doesn't slow down. Instead, he floors it, and I watch in horrified fascination as two tons of armored SUV collide with one hundred and fifty pounds of motorcycle and rider. The impact is sickening—a wet crunch followed by the screech of metal against asphalt.
I taste bile in my throat, but there's no time to process what I've just witnessed. More gunfire erupts from our left, and I feel Matteo's hand on the back of my head, forcing me lower.
"Stay down," he orders, but his voice carries none of the cold distance it held in the warehouse. This is almost... protective?
Through the chaos, I hear him speaking rapidly into his phone, issuing orders in Italian too fast for me to follow. But I catch enough to understand that this ambush was expected, prepared for. These men know exactly what they're doing.
The vehicle swerves again, and I'm thrown against Matteo's side. Instead of pushing me away, his arm comes around me, holding me steady against the violent motion. I can feel the tension in his muscles, the controlled strength that keeps both of us in place despite the chaos surrounding us.
For a moment—just a moment—I allow myself to feel safe. Protected. It's been so long since anyone shielded me from violence instead of being the source of it.
Then I remember who he is, what he represents, and I try to pull away. But his grip tightens fractionally, not enough to hurt but enough to keep me in place.
"Don't move," he says against my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "Let me protect you."
The simple words slams into me, harder than the sway of the car. When was the last time someone said that to me?
The gunfire intensifies, and I hear our driver curse creatively in what sounds like Russian. Through the windshield, I can see we're approaching some kind of checkpoint—concrete barriers, armed guards, the kind of security that suggests we're entering Romano territory.
