Page 28 of Ruthless Silence
"From my own family?" My voice cracks, and I switch to Italian without meaning to."Dalla mia famiglia?"
"From anyone who threatens you."
"Why?" The question escapes in English again. "Why do you care what happens to me?"
His eyes hold mine for a long moment. Then his hands move with more emphasis: "You wear my ring. You sleep in my bed. You carry my name."
Each statement builds his claim, and my body responds to the possession in his movements. This isn't just about duty. This is about ownership. I belong to him in ways that have nothing to do with contracts.
He doesn't sign anything else, just watches me work with that patient attention that makes my skin burn. My hands stay gentle on his wounds, carefully applying antibiotic cream. I'm being so careful not to hurt him, this man who just broke another man's arm for insulting me. When did I start caring about his pain?
His breathing changes when I lean closer to examine a particularly deep cut. I can feel the heat of him, smell the lingering scent of violence and expensive cologne on his skin. My exhausted body sways toward him without permission.
My old dress clings to my curves. The cotton is spotted with blood. Giuseppe's or his, I'm not sure. It should disgust me. Instead, I imagine him peeling it off me later, his split knuckles catching on the zipper.
"Mine to protect," he'd signed with those damaged hands. The possessive claim should anger me. Instead, heat pools low in my belly at the memory of him standing between me and danger. The monster of legend, mine.
My fingers linger on his wrist, feeling his pulse steady and strong beneath my touch. How can he be so calm after that violence? How can he sit here letting me tend him like this is normal? Like protecting me is just what he does now?
His other hand rises, signing one-handed: "The red dress. You chose it for me."
Not a question. He watched me shop, probably watched me trying it on. He knows. Heat floods my cheeks.
"Maria said you'd like it," I whisper.
That almost-smile appears, the one that makes my stomach flip. His eyes darken as they travel down my stained cotton dress, taking in how it clings, how it reveals, somehow making it feel as sexy as the red one. When his gaze returns to mine, the heat in it makes my breath catch.
We're close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes, close enough that if I leaned forward just slightly…
No.This is exhaustion talking. Nine days without proper sleep making me imagine things that aren't there. Making me want things I shouldn't want from the man who destroyed my family.
But as I wrap the bandage around his knuckles, his hand catches mine. Just for a moment. Just long enough for his thumb to press against my pulse where it races at my wrist. The same way he did at our first meeting. Marking the spot where my heart beats too fast for him.
When he releases me, my skin burns with the memory of contact. Tomorrow I'll remember why I hate him. Tomorrow I'll be stronger.
Tonight, I'm just Ana Rosetti, tending her husband's wounds, my body still humming from watching him become death incarnate in my defense.
And the worst part? The absolute worst part is how safe I feel now, knowing he'll always come for me.
13 - Dante
The bathroom smells like copper and violence. Ana kneels in front of me where I sit on the tub’s edge, her hands gentle on my split knuckles. The contrast makes my chest tight. Those same hands that clutch knives in the dark now tend wounds I earned protecting her.
"Hold still," she murmurs, dabbing antiseptic on a particularly deep cut. The sting is nothing compared to the torture of her proximity. Her shampoo, jasmine and something sweeter, fills my lungs with every breath.
She shifts closer, trying to get a better angle on my left hand. Her knee bumps mine, and without thinking, she swings her leg over, straddling my knee for stability. The innocent practicality of it nearly undoes me. She's focused entirely on cleaning blood from my knuckles, not realizing she's pressed against me, her thigh warm against mine through the thin fabric of her cotton dress.
Her thigh presses harder against mine as she leans in, and my cock hardens instantly. She's so focused on my wounds she doesn't notice how I'm imagining yanking her fully onto my lap, grinding her against me until she admits she bought that red dress to make me want her. Until she signs my name while coming apart. The cotton is warm from her skin, damp with sweat from the day's terror.
My free hand grips the tub's edge until my knuckles match the white porcelain. Every instinct screams to pull her fully onto my lap, to show her exactly what this proximity does to me.Instead, I hold perfectly still, letting her work. Her breath ghosts across my wrist as she leans closer, examining a cut near my thumb. Each exhale makes my cock throb harder.
"You killed for me," she says quietly, not looking up from her work. Her voice carries a tremor. Fear or something else.
I reach for my phone with my free hand, type one-handed: "Killed near you. Not the same as for you."
The lie sits between us. Every blow was for her. Would do it again. Would do worse. When Giuseppe's gun swung toward Ana, my world stopped. Not slowed. Stopped. My heart forgot to beat, my lungs forgot to breathe. Then pure, liquid rage flooded my system like poison. Not her. Never her. I'll paint the street with his blood before he touches what's mine.
She looks up then, and suddenly realizes our position. How she's practically in my lap, how close our faces are. Her pupils dilate, breath catching. She feels it too, this dangerous thing building between us.
