Page 22 of His Savage Ruin
"What would happen," he murmurs, his voice so close now that it feels like he's whispering directly into my ear, "if I reached across this wall right now? If I slid my hand under this shirt and reminded you that you're completely at my mercy?"
My body responds before my mind can catch up—a sharp intake of breath, a tremor in my hands, heat blooming across my skin like I've been touched by flame. I want him to do it. Want it with a desperation that terrifies me because I've never wanted anyone before.
Just as I'm beginning to wonder if it would be so terrible to let him touch me, to find out what it feels like to be wanted instead of owned, he pulls away.
The mattress shifts as he settles back on his side of the bed, leaving me gasping in the darkness like I've been running for miles.
"Sleep well,principessa," he says, his voice carrying satisfied amusement.
He played me. Drew me in, made me respond to him, then pulled back just to prove he could. To show me exactly how much power he has over my reactions, my treacherous desires.
I want to scream. Want to tear down this ridiculous pillow wall and hit him until the smug satisfaction disappears from his voice. But more than anything, I want to understand why my body is still humming with unfulfilled need, why I feel empty and aching and furious all at once.
I hate it. Hate him. Hate myself for responding to him like some kind of desperate creature who's never been touched with anything resembling gentleness.
"Bastard," I mutter under my breath.
"I heard that."
"Good."
His soft chuckle makes me want to throw something at his arrogant head.
Silence settles between us, but it's charged now, heavy with unfinished business and sexual tension that seems to thicken the very air. I lie rigid on my side of the bed, willing my heart rate to slow, my breathing to steady, my body to stop betraying me with its obvious arousal.
"Tell me about him," Matteo says eventually, his voice cutting through the darkness. "Your husband."
"No." The answer is automatic, instinctive.
"Why? Loyalty?"
"Privacy."
"You don't have privacy anymore. Not from me."
The casual statement of ownership should make me angry, but I'm too wrung out from our earlier exchange to summon much indignation.
"What do you want to know?" I ask, resigned.
"What was he like? As a husband."
I consider lying, giving him some sanitized version of my marriage that doesn't reveal how pathetic and powerless I really was. But what's the point? He already knows I'm not pregnant. Already knows I was desperate enough to fake medical records.
"Controlling," I say finally. "Everything had to be his way. What I wore, where I went, who I spoke to. What I ate." I pause, surprised by what comes out next. "What I drank."
"He controlled what you drank?"
"Among other things. Coffee was forbidden. Made me too alert, too difficult to manage. I was supposed to drink herbal tea, something that would keep me calm and compliant."
"But you drank it anyway."
It's not a question. Somehow, he's read between the lines, seen the small rebellion hidden in my words.
"Sometimes. When he was traveling or sleeping off a particularly heavy night. I'd sneak down to the kitchen and make myself a single shot of espresso with just a dash of milk. Stand at the window and pretend I was someone else."
I hear him shift again, and I wonder what he's thinking. Whether he sees me as pathetic for staying, for enduring, for not fighting back harder than I did.
"Did you ever try to leave?" he asks quietly.
