Page 77 of His Savage Ruin
"Why?"
"Because if I don't—" My voice cracks, and I hate the weakness in it but I can't seem to stop now that I've started bleeding these truths out. "If I let myself be anything softer, if I trust the wrong person or show mercy at the wrong moment, I'll end up like my father. Dead on a warehouse floor with a bullet in my head while my enemies laugh."
Her thumb traces the scar, gentle. "Or maybe you'll end up human again."
The words knock the breath out of me, and I want to argue, to tell her she doesn't understand this world or what it costs to survive in it, but I can't make the words come. Because she's looking at my scar—at the mark of my worst night, the thing that shaped me into a monster—and she's not afraid.
"I don't know how to be anything else," I admit, and the confession feels like tearing something vital out of my chest and handing it to her.
"Then I'll remind you." She leans forward, presses her lips to the scar. Soft. Tender. "Every time you forget."
Something breaks open in my chest—not painful but terrifying in how complete it is, how thoroughly she's destroying the walls I've spent years building. I pull her closer, bury my face in her neck, and for the first time since that warehouse I let myself feel the weight of that night without trying to armor myself against it. The terror of watching my father die. The grief of losing him and my uncle in one night. The boy who died because a man had to be born to survive.
She holds me through it without trying to tell me it's okay when we both know it's not.
When I finally pull back, her eyes are wet. "Thank you," she whispers. "For telling me."
I nod because I can't speak yet, can't explain that she's the first person who's ever made me feel like maybe being human isn't the same as being weak.
"We should go inside." My voice comes out rough and scraped raw from talking. "Before the staff wakes up and finds us naked in the pool."
A small smile touches her lips. "Would that be so terrible?"
She laughs—soft and tired but real, and the sound does something to me that I don't have words for. I stand, lifting her with me, and carry her up the steps. The air is cool against wet skin. Birds are starting to wake in the garden, filling the silence with song.
I wrap a towel around her shoulders, then one around my waist. She leans against me, exhausted from the night, from everything I just told her. From choosing not to run even though she probably should.
"Matteo?" Her voice is quiet.
"Yeah?"
"I'm still angry about the marriage. About you deciding without asking me first."
"I know you are, and you have every right to be."
"But I understand why you did it."
I press my lips to the top of her head, breathe in chlorine and jasmine. "That's all I can ask for right now."
We walk back to the house together in silence. When we reach the bedroom, she lets the towel fall and climbs into bed. I follow,pulling her against my chest. Her body fits perfectly in the curve of mine—like we were made for this, for each other.
"Sleep," I murmur against her hair, and my eyes are already getting heavy now that the adrenaline from telling her everything has worn off. "We have time to figure this out."
She's already drifting off, her breathing evening out into the rhythm of sleep. But just before sleep takes her completely, she whispers: "I see you. Not the monster. You."
And for the first time since that warehouse eighteen years ago, I believe someone actually does.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Alessia
I wake to Matteo's arm wrapped around my waist, his body pressed against my back. The room is too bright—morning sun cutting through the curtains we forgot to close last night. My body aches in places that remind me of the pool, the tile, his hands.
He shifts behind me with a quiet groan, and his arm loosens slightly around my waist.
"Matteo?"
"Mm." His voice is rough with sleep, and he presses his face against my shoulder. "What time is it?"
