Page 25 of His Savage Ruin
He finishes dressing, then pauses at the foot of the bed where I'm sitting up among the tangled sheets.
"We'll finish this conversation later," he says, pulling on his shirt.
"There's nothing to finish," I say, trying to rebuild my defenses.
"Isn't there?" He pauses in buttoning his shirt, those eyes finding mine. "You can lie to yourself all you want, Alessia."
He starts to turn toward the door, then stops. From the corner of my eye, I see his hand moving—fast, decisive, coming in my direction.
My body reacts before my mind can process the movement. I flinch away with violent instinctive fear, my shoulders hunching protectively, my breath coming in short gasps as muscle memory overrides rational thought.
Matteo freezes, his hand suspended in the air between us. I realize with burning shame that he was only reaching for his watch on the nightstand beside the bed.
But the damage is done. His expression shifts to something dark and dangerous as he processes my reaction.
"Have you been hit before?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet.
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications I'm not ready to face. But I can see in his eyes that he already knows the answer, that my reaction has told him everything he needs to know about the kind of marriage I endured.
I open my mouth to lie, to deflect, to do anything but confirm what he's already figured out.
But no words come.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Matteo
I watch her face carefully as the question settles between us, cataloging every micro-expression, every telltale sign. The answer is written in her reaction—the way she flinched from my touch, the defensive set of her shoulders, the careful distance she maintains even now. Someone has hurt her. Badly. What I had imagined to be true yesterday has just been confirmed.
"I'm not going to pressure you," I say, keeping my voice level, controlled. "I need you to understand something,principessa. I will never hurt you. Not in that way, not in any way that isn't asked for."
She stares at me for a long moment, as if trying to decode some hidden meaning in my words. "Why should I believe you?"
"Because I keep my promises. The good ones and the bad ones."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken truths and careful boundaries. Finally, I reach for the bedside table and pull out a phone and a piece of paper.
"Make me a list," I say, setting both items on the bed within her reach. "Everything you need. Clothes, toiletries, books, whatever will make this situation more bearable."
She eyes the phone suspiciously. "What's this?"
"A direct line to me. It can only call and text my number. Consider it... customer service."
Despite everything, her mouth quirks slightly at that. "Customer service for kidnapping?"
"I prefer to think of it as hospitality management."
She picks up the pen, testing its weight. "And if I write 'freedom' at the top of the list?"
"Then I'll explain why that particular item isn't available for delivery."
"How about 'a one-way ticket to anywhere but here'?"
"Also, temporarily out of stock."
This time she actually smiles, and something dangerous shifts in my chest. This woman—this captive who should hate me, fear me, curse my name—is trading barbs with me like we're old friends. It's unsettling in ways I don't want to analyze.
A knock at the door saves me from examining that thought too closely.
