Page 20 of His Savage Ruin
"I won't talk about him."
"Why?" I lean back, studying her. "Loyalty to his memory?"
Her laugh is sharp, brittle—nothing like amusement. "Something like that."
I catch the way her hand moves unconsciously to her ribs, a protective gesture that speaks volumes. "Or maybe there's something about your marriage you'd rather keep private."
"Let's discuss something else," she says, deflecting with practiced skill. "Tell me about the family that murdered your father. Since we're sharing confidences."
Clever. She's redirecting, but she's also fishing for information that could be useful later. I allow it—her tactical thinking is almost impressive.
"My father was murdered by the Morettis seventeen years ago," I say. "Betrayed by a man he trusted, ambushed during what was supposed to be a peace meeting."
Her posture shifts slightly—she already knows this story. "Your uncle. I heard the stories."
"What stories?"
"That you killed him yourself. With your bare hands. It’s why they call youThe Devil."
"True." I don't try to soften the admission. Let her see exactly what I'm capable of.
She studies my face, searching for something—remorse, perhaps, or regret. Her search is pointless.
"How old were you?"
"Seventeen. Old enough to understand what betrayal meant. Old enough to make sure it never happened again."
Something flickers in her expression—understanding, maybe even sympathy. "And now you think someone in your organization is betraying you again."
"I don't think. I know." The certainty in my voice makes her go very still. "The question is who."
We stare at each other across the dimming room. She's measuring me, just as I'm measuring her.
"I'm tired," she says finally.
I rise from the chair, noting how her eyes track the movement. "The bed is comfortable. You'll sleep well."
"Where will you sleep?"
"In my bed."
Her eyes darken, something wild and conflicted flashing across her features. "I'm not sleeping with you."
I move toward the bathroom, letting my voice carry casual authority. "The bed is large enough for both of us. But if you prefer, you're welcome to take the floor."
"I'll take the couch."
"There is no couch."
"The chair, then."
"The chair will be uncomfortable, and you have a concussion."
I pause at the bathroom door, watching her mind work through options that don't exist.
"Fine," she says finally. "But I'm building a wall."
“A wall?”
