Page 18 of His Savage Ruin
The double meaning isn't lost on her. Her breathing quickens, and she bites her lower lip—a gesture so unconsciously sensual it takes all my control not to cross the room and claim that mouth with mine.
A knock at the door interrupts us. The maids enter, take one look at the destruction, and begin working with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of cleaning up after Romano men.
As they work, I notice Alessia press her fingers to her temple, a small grimace of pain crossing her features. Even in pain, she's beautiful—vulnerable in a way that makes every protective instinct I have roar to life.
"Has the doctor seen to your head injury?" I ask, trying to keep my authority intact even as I catch the faint grimace she tries to hide.
"No," she replies, and something in her tone makes me look at her more sharply. "I haven’t seen any doctors."
Ice floods my veins, washing away the heat of moments before. I specifically ordered medical attention for her head injury. Specifically told my men that her health was a priority.
"Excuse me," I say to Alessia, my voice deadly calm.
I step into the hallway and find Marco stationed outside the door
"Get Dr. Reeves. Now. Tell him he has sixty seconds to get to my room."
The guard takes one look at my expression and runs.
Dr. Reeves appears in exactly fifty-eight seconds, medical bag in hand, his face pale with the knowledge that he's fucked up badly.
"Don Romano," he starts, his voice shaking slightly. "I was told?—"
"I don’t care what you were told," I cut him off, my voice carrying the promise of violence. "You will examine the woman for head trauma right now."
"Matteo." Alessia's voice cuts through the red haze threatening to consume me. Something in her tone—concern, not fear—makes me pause. "It's fine. I'm fine." But it's not fine. Orders in my house are absolute. The only reason I let this pass is that he's been the Romano family physician for years, and it is likely that my men did not give him the order.
I hold Dr. Reeves with my killer gaze for another heartbeat, acutely aware of Alessia watching me. When I release him from my sight, he visibly relaxes.
"Now examine her," I command. "Thoroughly."
He approaches Alessia with the kind of careful movements that suggest he's aware of how angry I am. "Mrs...?"
"Just Alessia," she says, her voice tight with tension. "And I already said I'm fine."
"Let's make certain, shall we? Can you follow my finger with your eyes?" Dr. Reeves replies, his voice shaking slightly.
As he begins his examination, I find myself watching every micro-expression on Alessia's face, cataloging signs of pain or discomfort. When she winces as he probes the bump on her temple, fury builds in my chest—not at her, but at the Moretti animals who put it there.
"Mild concussion," the doctor concludes, his voice steadier now that he's in familiar territory. "Nothing serious, but I'd recommend rest and monitoring for the next twenty-four hours. I can prescribe something for the headache—tramadol should help with any discomfort."
"No." Alessia's refusal is immediate and sharp. "No pills."
Dr. Reeves looks to me for guidance, but Alessia continues before I can speak.
"I don't take anything that affects my thinking," she says, her voice carrying a note of steel.
The words tell me more about her past than any interrogation could. Someone who refuses pain medication values consciousness over comfort—usually because unconsciousness has meant danger.
"You heard the lady," I say quietly. "But leave something. In case she changes her mind."
He nods, packing his equipment with efficiency. He sets a small white bottle on the desk within easy reach. "Call if the headache worsens or if there's any nausea, vomiting or dizziness. Those would be signs to worry about."
After he leaves, I turn back to Alessia. The maids have restored order to most of the room, leaving only the two of us and the tension that seems to thicken every time we're alone.
She's still sitting in my chair, still wearing nothing but my shirt, her bare legs a distraction I'm finding increasingly difficult to ignore.
"Thank you," she says quietly, and the sincerity in her voice catches me off guard. "For not forcing the medication."
