Page 30 of Ruthless Silence
"No." Her signs turn urgent, frustrated with her inability to explain. "Scared of how I felt. Safe. With you."
The words hit harder than any blow. She felt it too. That rightness when I stood between her and danger. The click of pieces falling into place.
"I'm supposed to hate you," she signs, and there's desperation in the movement, her hands almost pleading.
"You do hate me," I sign back, keeping my movements controlled despite the chaos in my chest.
"It's getting complicated."
"Good."
The word hangs between us. Complicated means feeling. Means possibility. Means maybe she'll let me touch her soon, before this want destroys me completely.
She climbs into bed, pulling covers up to her chin. And tonight, tonight for the second time since she arrived, she faces me instead of the wall.
"I still have to try," she signs, her hands poking out from beneath the cover, the moonlight catching her fingers. She signs as though speaking would shatter the night. "To kill you."
"I know."
"But maybe… not tonight."
First reprieve she's given me. My breath catches. Did she just…?
"Sleep, Ana. You're safe."
And miraculously, she does. Her breathing evens out into a rhythm I've memorized, real sleep instead of the pretense we've been maintaining. She trusts me enough to actually rest, facing toward me like I'm something more than the monster in her story.
Nine days of this torture. Nine days of watching her sleep, or pretend to sleep, while I burn in this chair. Nine days of her knife-edge promises and reluctant softening.
She's actually asleep now, genuinely resting for the first time since our wedding. Her face is soft in the moonlight, unguarded in a way that makes my chest ache. One hand rests outside the covers, palm up, fingers slightly curled. Trusting. Vulnerable.
I want to reach across the space between us, trace those fingers that sign death threats and sometimes, rarely, something softer. Want to press my mouth to her pulse point and feel her heart race. Want so many things that this chair and my promises prevent. Want to spread her thighs and taste her while she signs my name. Want to corrupt every inch of innocence she has left.
I stay awake to guard her sleep, to watch over this fragile peace she's given me. Every breath she takes is one I count, memorizing the rhythm of her trust. The sound changes when she dreams. Shorter, sharper inhales. She's dreaming now,fingers twitching slightly. The want burns through me like fever, but I won't move from this chair. Won't break the promise that keeps her safe from what I want to do to her, with her.
Tomorrow marks ten days since our wedding. Something has to give soon. The tension between us has wound so tight it's either going to snap or explode. Either she'll finally succeed in killing me, or I'll break my promise about not touching without permission.
Both feel inevitable now. We're circling each other like fighters who've forgotten why they entered the ring, each waiting for the other to make the decisive move. But tonight, she gave me peace. One night without assassination attempts. One night of facing toward me instead of away.
The composition I've been writing for her sits on my desk downstairs, nearly complete. A symphony of our violent courtship, all the words I cannot speak transformed into notes she pretends not to find beautiful.
She shifts in sleep, murmuring something in Italian I can't quite catch. Her hand moves, fingers signing something unconsciously. My name, rendered in sleep-soft movements. "Dante" spelled out letter by letter in the darkness.
Nine days, and she dreams in sign language. Dreams of me.
Either she kills me or I kiss her. At this point, I'm not sure which would be the greater mercy. But I'll guard her sleep tonight, watch over her peace, want her with every fiber of my being. Because that's what I do now. That's who I've become. Her guardian monster, burning with want in the darkness, harder than I've ever been just from watching her trust me enough to sleep.
14 - Ana
Two in the morning, ten days married, and I can’t breathe from wanting what I shouldn’t want.
The silk sheets tangle around my legs as I throw them off, giving up on sleep. After a few blissful hours of rest, the evening turned into the same old torture: Dante in that leather chair, me in this bed, the space between us charged with something I refuse to name. My nightgown clings to sweat-damp skin, and I know he notices. He notices everything. The way I shift restlessly, the catch in my breath when he adjusts his position, how my fingers clutch the sheets when his presence becomes too much.
Ten days of this careful dance. Ten days of him watching me pretend to sleep while I burn.
I need air. Space. Distance from this room that smells like him, cigarettes and sandalwood, a scent that makes my thighs clench with unwanted heat.
The hallway stretches dark and silent. My bare feet make no sound on the cold marble as I wander. I tell myself I'm looking for the kitchen, for water, for anything but him. But my traitorous feet know exactly where they're going: toward the sound of controlled violence that's been calling to me for ten nights. The rhythmic impacts, controlled breathing. The gym door stands slightly open, light spilling into the hallway.
