Page 17 of His Savage Ruin
Her hands tremble, but she doesn’t back down completely. "She’s terrified, alone—just like I was. Men with guns deciding her life?—"
"Enough." The word cuts across her tirade, quiet but final. I stand, letting silence and presence do what anger never could. "This conversation ends here."
For a long moment, her eyes blaze at me, but then she exhales sharply and backs toward the door. "This isn’t over." She slams it behind her hard enough to rattle the frames.
I sit again, unruffled, my attention returning to the table. "Gentlemen. Where were we?"
The first thing I notice when I open my bedroom door is the chaos.
Clothes scattered across every surface. Papers strewn like confetti. My perfectly organized world turned upside down. It's a deliberate destruction—not the work of someone having a breakdown, but someone making a point.
The second thing I notice is Alessia herself.
She sits in my leather chair wearing nothing but my black dress shirt, her bare legs crossed with casual elegance. The silk falls to mid-thigh, and I know—know—that she's wearing nothing underneath. The knowledge sends heat through my veins that has nothing to do with anger.
Her chin, once again, is lifted in defiance and her eyes meet mine without a trace of apology.
"Welcome home," she says, her voice carrying just enough mockery to make my jaw tighten. "I hope you don't mind, I made myself… comfortable."
The way she draws out the word 'comfortable' makes something primal coil in my chest. Iclose the door behind me with precision, my gaze never leaving her face. She's testing me, pushing boundaries to see how I'll react. It's a dangerous game, especially when she's sitting there looking like every dark fantasy, I've never allowed myself to have.
"Where are my clothes?" she asks, her voice carrying that familiar note of challenge.
"Burned," I reply without hesitation and take a step closer, watching her pupils dilate. "You'll have to make do with what I give you."
Her breath catches slightly—fear or excitement, impossible to tell. "How thorough of you."
"I'm nothing if not complete in my methods." Another step. "When I take something, I make sure it becomes entirely mine."
"So, what am I supposed to wear?"
I let my gaze travel deliberately from her face to her bare legs, taking my time with the view, letting her see exactly what I'm thinking. "You seem to have figured something out."
She shifts in the chair, and I catch the slight tremor in her hands before she steadies them. But she doesn't break eye contact, doesn't back down. "This is your shirt."
"It looks better on you than it does on me." I move closer still, close enough now to catch the scent of my soap on her skin. "Then again, I think you'd look even better without it."
Color floods her cheeks, but her chin stays lifted in defiance. There's heat in her eyes now, unmistakable and intoxicating.
"You destroyed my room," I observe, moving closer, feeling a bit too much like a predator.
"I redecorated," she corrects, deliberately uncrossing and recrossing her legs—a movement that draws my attention exactly where she intends it to and sends blood rushing south. "Don't you like it?"
I stop directly in front of her chair, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. Close enough to see heragitation. Close enough that when I lean forward slightly, my hands braced on the arms of the chair, she's caged.
"It's very... creative," I murmur, letting my voice drop to something barely above a whisper. My face is inches from hers now, and I watch her lips part slightly as her breathing quickens. "Though I have to wonder what you were trying to accomplish."
"Maybe I wanted to see if the perfectionist in you would crack," she whispers, her voice breathy now, all pretense gone. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. "If there were any flaws in that controlled facade."
"And what did you discover?"
"That you’re still standing there. And that you’re fully dressed while I’m sitting here in your shirt." The words slip out of her, softer than before, almost like she hadn’t meant to voice them. Her gaze flicks to my mouth and back, a fleeting loss of composure rather than deliberate provocation.
The sight stirs something dark and hungry in my chest. She doesn’t understand the fire she’s playing with—what losing control would mean.
Instead, I lean back slowly, watching as something flickers across her face—disappointment, or maybe relief—before she shutters it away. I move to the phone beside my bed, dialing the house extension. "Send two maids to my room immediately."
When I set the receiver down, I glance at Alessia. "They’ll handle the mess. Unless you’d prefer I discipline you."
