Page 43 of His Savage Ruin
I watch it fall, spinning in slow motion, white against dark carpet. My vision tunnels. The edges of the room go gray, then black, shrinking to just that paper on the floor with its neat script and devastating truth.
Someone knows.
My lungs won't expand. I try to breathe—once, twice—but air won't come. It's like being underwater, pressure building in my chest until I think my ribs might crack from it. The copper taste of fear floods my mouth, making saliva pool under my tongue.
How? How could anyone know? I never told—I didn't?—
The room spins. I reach for the sofa back, miss by inches, my knees buckling. My hip hits the coffee table edge and pain flares sharp enough to cut through panic for a heartbeat. I grip the table with both hands, knuckles going white, using the hurt to anchor me.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But I can't. I can't force air past the constriction in my throat, can't make my lungs work properly. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. My heart slams so hard against my ribs I'm distantly surprised it doesn't just burst through bone and flesh.
Someone knows about Lorenzo. About our marriage. About the fact that we never—that he never?—
If this gets back to the Morettis, I'm dead—Don Emilio will know I've been lying about carrying his grandchild, that there's no heir to protect, no reason to keep me alive.
The door opens.
I hear it through the roaring in my ears, the click of the latch and whisper of hinges, but I can't look up. Can't do anything except kneel gripping the coffee table while my vision narrows to pinpoints and my body forgets how to perform basic functions like breathing.
I hear footsteps cross the room quickly, and then Matteo's hands are on my shoulders, firm and grounding.
"Alessia." His voice cuts through the panic, sharp and commanding. "Look at me."
I can't. My chest is too tight, my vision swimming with black spots.
"Breathe." His hands move to cup my face, forcing my head up until I'm staring into his eyes. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. Do it now."
The command in his voice cuts through the panic enough that I manage one shaky breath, then another. He keeps his hands on my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, anchoring me in the moment.
"That's it. Keep breathing. You're safe." He guides me to the sofa, keeping one hand on my back as I sink onto the cushions. "Slower. Match my breathing."
I watch his chest rise and fall, trying to sync my ragged gasps to his steady rhythm. Gradually, the black spots recede and my lungs remember how to work properly. The panic doesn't disappear completely, but it loosens its grip enough that I can think again.
"Better?" he asks, and there's something almost gentle in his tone that makes my throat tighten for entirely different reasons.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet.
Only then does he glance at the floor, at the note lying face-up on the carpet. He releases me and crosses the room in three strides, scooping it up with one fluid motion. I watch through blurred vision as his eyes scan the text, watch his expression shift from concern to something cold and deadly.
When he looks at me again, his eyes have gone winter-hard.
"Who sent this?"
"I don't know." The words come out as a whisper, barely audible even to my own ears. "I don't know how they could know, I never told anyone?—"
"Know what, exactly?" He steps closer, his presence filling the space between us, forcing me to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "What is it they think they know about your marriage?"
My calves hit the sofa and I stumble back, trapped. He closes the distance between us until I can feel heat radiating off him. I smell his cologne. He is angry, his control barely leashed.
"It's nothing." The lie tastes like ash on my tongue. "Just someone trying to cause trouble."
"Don't lie to me." Each word drops like a stone into still water, sending ripples through whatever fragile peace we'd built.
The truth claws up my throat. I could keep lying. Should keep lying. Lying has kept me alive this long, kept me breathing through forty-five days of performance art while I figured out my next move.
But what's the point? Someone else knows.
