Page 7 of His Savage Ruin
After a moment of silent communication, the gravelly-voiced one approaches with a knife. "Hold still."
He cuts the zip tie on my right wrist with practiced efficiency, but leaves my left hand secured to the chair. I flex my free fingers, working feeling back into them, and notice he steps well out of reach before I can try anything stupid. He only freed my right arm, leaving the other tied tight to the chair, a reminder that freedom here is always partial, always controlled.
Smart man.
I unwrap the sandwich—turkey and cheese on what looks like decent bread—and take a bite. It tastes like cardboard, but that'sprobably the fear talking. Food is food, and I need to maintain my strength.
While I eat, I study the guards more carefully. Both armed, both alert, but they're comfortable in this space. This isn't their first time babysitting someone in this room. The one who cut my ties is older, maybe forty, with scars on his hands that suggest he's seen real violence. The younger one by the door can't be more than twenty-five, still eager to prove himself.
Veterans and rookies. Standard pairing in organizations like this—the experienced one keeps the newbie from making mistakes, the newbie provides backup and fresh eyes.
I'm cataloging exit routes and weapon possibilities when the door opens again. This time, it's Matteo himself who enters, carrying a manila folder and what looks like medical equipment.
My heart kicks against my ribs, and I hate that my body reacts to his presence. He's changed clothes since our first meeting—still all black, but now it's casual pants and a fitted sweater that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders. The scar along his jaw catches the light, and I can see more of his tattoos now that his sleeves are pushed up. Dark ink winds around his forearms, intricate designs that probably tell stories I don't want to know.
He's beautiful in the way dangerous things are beautiful—every detail immaculate—every hair precisely in place, the black sweater fitting him like it was tailored this morning, his movements deliberate, his tone measured and smooth as if evenhis voice has been sharpened for command. Perfect in a way that feels dangerous."
"Gentlemen," he says to the guards, not taking his eyes off me. "Give us some privacy."
They file out without question, closing the door behind them. The silence that follows is heavy with tension and unspoken threats.
"Feeling better?" he asks, setting the folder and equipment on the table.
"Much, thanks. Nothing like a kidnapping and imprisonment to really clear the head."
His mouth quirks in what might be amusement. "Still sharp-tongued, I see. Good. I'd hate for you to lose your spirit so quickly."
"What do you want, Romano?"
"Matteo," he corrects. "And I want the truth."
"About what?"
"About a lot of things. But let's start with something simple." He opens the folder, revealing what look like medical forms. "We need to verify something,principessa."
The endearment sounds different now—less threatening, more... intimate. Which is somehow worse.
"Verify what?"
He looks at me with those cold gray eyes, and I see the exact moment he drops any pretense of civility.
"Your condition." He moves toward the door. "The doctor will be in shortly to run some tests."
CHAPTER FOUR
Matteo
I see the briefest flicker of something that crosses her golden-brown eyes before she locks it down behind that mask of defiance she wears so well. Fear? Anxiety? It's hard to read, but then again, any pregnant woman being held captive would be concerned about medical procedures.
"What kind of tests?" she asks, and her voice is steady, but I catch the slight tension in her throat.
"Standard medical examination," I reply simply. "We need to ensure you and the baby are healthy."
I step into the hallway, leaving her with that explanation, and signal for Dr. Reeves to enter. He's been waiting patiently in the shadows, medical bag in hand, the same calm professionalism that's served the Romano family for fifteen years etched into every line of his weathered face. Through the door, I can hearDr. Reeves's calm voice explaining the procedure, can hear her measured responses. She's maintaining control, but there's an underlying tension in her voice that wasn't there during our earlier conversation.
My phone buzzes with a text from Enzo:Everything ready for transport to the estate. Waiting for your signal.
I type back:Stand by. Finishing checkup first.
