Page 44 of His Savage Ruin
"Lorenzo and I..." My voice cracks. I shouldn’t say it. But the words keep coming like blood from a wound I can't stanch. "We never..."
I can't finish. Can't force the confession past my lips even though it's sitting right there, waiting to destroy whatever fragile thing exists between us.
Matteo's jaw locks. I watch a muscle jump beneath his skin, watch his hands curl into fists at his sides before he forces them open again.
"Never what?" His voice has gone quieter now, which is somehow worse than if he'd shouted.
My hands twist together, nails digging into my own palms hard enough to leave crescents. "We never consummated our marriage."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Matteo goes completely still. Not the stillness of relaxation but of a predator deciding whether to strike. Every muscle locked, breath held, eyes fixed on my face with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
"You did not sleep with your husband?" The words come out strange, like he's tasting them and can't quite believe the flavor.
I shake my head. Can't manage words, can only give him that small denial while shame burns hot up my neck and into my cheeks.
"He tried. The first night, and a few times after." The confession spills out now that I've started, words tumbling over each other in their rush to escape. "But I fought him, and when he realized I wouldn't just lie there and take it, he..." I gesture helplessly at myribs, at the scars hidden beneath silk and lies. "He found other ways to hurt me. But he never actually succeeded in?—"
"You're telling me," Matteo says, his voice growing rougher with each word, dropping into registers that make something low in my belly tighten, "that you're still..."
He trails off. Can't finish the sentence, or won't. But we both know what word he's not saying.
"A virgin." I force myself to say it clearly, to own the admission even though it feels like stepping off a cliff into open air. "Yes."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Matteo
Virgin.
The word echoes in my skull, drowning out reason and strategy and every careful plan I've built.
Alessia Moretti, widow of one of Chicago's most powerful made men, has never been touched by any man. The woman who sits here trembling in my shirt, who's been sharing my bed for days, who responds to my kiss like fire catching tinder—she's completely untouched.
Something primal and possessive roars to life in my chest. Mine. The thought burns through me with savage satisfaction. She'll be mine in every way that matters. The first man to touch her, to claim her, to make her fall apart in his arms.
I should walk away. Should put distance between us while I still can, while my control is something more than a fraying thread. But I can't move. Can't do anything except stare at her standing there with shame burning in her cheeks, like her virginity is something to be ashamed of instead of a gift I don't deserve.
"Look at me," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend.
She does, golden-brown eyes meeting mine with a mixture of fear and something hotter. Her lips part slightly, breath coming faster.
"Do you understand what you've just told me?" I cross the space between us in two strides, unable to stop myself. Her eyes widen but she doesn't step back. Doesn't even flinch. "Do you understand what it means?"
"It means I'm pathetic," she whispers, and the self-loathing in her voice makes rage flood my veins. "It means I couldn't even be a proper wife to?—"
"No." The word comes out sharp enough to cut. I catch her chin between my fingers, forcing her to maintain eye contact. "It means no man has ever touched you. No one has ever shown you pleasure." I lean closer, letting my breath ghost across her lips. "Do you want me to be the first?"
Her throat works as she swallows. I watch her pupils dilate, see the way her breathing shifts from fear to something else entirely. When she speaks, her voice is barely audible.
"Yes."
That single word ignites something in me that I've been trying to keep locked down since the moment she walked into my life. I capture her mouth with mine, and this kiss is different from all the others—hungrier, more demanding, weighted with the knowledge that I'll be the first man to truly have her.
She melts against me immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt like she needs something to anchor her. When I deepen the kiss, she makes a soft sound that goes straight to my cock. I'm already hard, have been since the word virgin left her lips, and the knowledge that she can feel my arousal through layers of fabric makes me want to tear her clothes off right here.
But I force myself to slow down. To remember that this is new for her, that rushing will only bring back memories of Lorenzo trying to force what she wouldn't give.
