Page 40 of Ruthless Silence
Her body shakes against mine, adrenaline crash hitting hard. "We fought well together," she whispers, and I hear wonder in it. The recognition of what we are together.
Perfect. We're perfect together, in violence as in everything else.
She could barely hold a knife on our wedding day, and tonight she threw blades with deadly precision and grouped bullets center mass. She's not good in close quarters but… Next time she tries to kill me, she ought to try it from across the room.
"You learned to fight," I sign, watching her face carefully. "Who taught you?"
She looks away, something flickering in her eyes. "My uncle. Before…" She doesn't finish, but I understand. Before that night. Before everything changed.
The possessive beast in my chest settles slightly. Not some other man's hands on her recently. Family. Training from before she was mine. I can accept that.
"We'll discuss it at home," I sign, then add with possessive certainty: "All of it. Every secret."
Because if tonight proved anything, it's that Ana Rosetti is exactly who she's supposed to be. My equal. My match. My perfect, deadly wife who saves me while bleeding, who fights like she fucks: with complete abandon and devastating precision.
"Home," I bark to Tommy, the word rough in my throat. "Now."
Ana presses closer, her good hand finding mine, thumb on my pulse point like she's learned my habits. Marking me like I've marked her. The blood on our joined hands isn't all hers anymore. It's ours. Mixed in violence like our bodies mixed in pleasure.
Three days of avoiding each other, ended in blood and recognition. She's not just the woman I claimed. She's the partner I never knew I needed. And she's bleeding.
That can't stand.
Someone will pay for every drop. But first, I need to tend her. Touch her. Confirm she's whole and staying that way.
The city blurs past the windows as we race toward home, Ana's blood still warm on my hands, her body still trembling against mine.
.
19 - Ana
“Your hands first,” I say, catching Dante’s wrist before he can reach for my arm. The blood on his knuckles looks black in our suite’s low light, split skin gaping where bone met flesh too many times tonight.
He gestures, impatient, at my arm.
"My arm can wait." I guide him toward the bathroom, my grip firm on his wrist. The precision Zio Roberto taught me for knives works just as well for tending wounds. "It's barely bleeding. Your knuckles are split to hell."
The same hands that were inside me three days ago, making me scream his name. Now they're covered in blood from protecting me. The memory makes wetness gather between my thighs, and I hate myself for the betrayal of it. My body doesn't care about revenge. It only remembers how those hands made me come apart.
In the bathroom's harsh light, the damage looks worse. Deep splits across every knuckle, one cut so deep I can see white beneath. The copper smell of blood mixes with his cologne, violence and sandalwood. My nipples tighten against my dress, but my body has terrible taste in turn-ons.
I run warm water in the sink, testing the temperature before taking his hand. He lets me position him, watching my face rather than his wounds as I begin cleaning the blood away. The water runs pink, then red, then pink again.
"You didn't have to be so extreme," I say, dabbing antiseptic on the worst cut. He doesn't flinch, just keeps watching me withthose dark eyes that saw me naked and begging just days ago. "The violence, I mean. You could have just—"
His free hand moves sharply: "Your blood." A pause, then his eyes go black, the same look before he shattered that man's spine. "Touch you again, they die slower."
Simple. Absolute. The kind of promise that makes my pussy clench despite everything.
"They barely grazed me," I argue, working on his other hand now, trying to ignore how my thighs press together for friction. "You broke that man's spine."
"He made you bleed."
Like that explains everything. Like my blood spilling is worth any amount of violence.
His thumb brushes my wrist as I bandage him, the same grip from when he held my wrists above my head, when he made me beg. My breath catches, and he notices. Of course he notices. His eyes darken with recognition, remembering exactly what I'm remembering.
"Now you," Dante signs when I finish bandaging his knuckles, his gaze dropping to where my nipples press against silk.
