Page 51 of Ruthless Silence
She leans closer to read my signs clearly, close enough I can see down her nightgown. The bruises on her breasts from my mouth. Christ, I'm a sick fuck, getting harder while she grieves.
"That night," I begin, forcing my hands steady. "Got a call about an attack in progress. Twenty minutes after it started. Too late from the beginning."
Her breathing changes, shorter, sharper. Like it did when I was inside her.
"When I arrived, bodies everywhere. The killing almost done. Not Moretti, not Rosetti, someone else." My hands clench, reform. "I fought through to reach the conference room. Your father was still alive. Barely."
Ana's breath catches. The knife pendant shifts against her throat, catching light like an accusation.
"I held him as he died." The signs feel like cutting my own throat again. "His last words were your name. 'Ana,' he said. 'Protect Ana.'"
Her sob could break stone. But I continue.
"I knew you were there." My signs turn sharp. "Hidden in the wall panel. Could hear your breathing. Left you there."
"You knew?"
"Safer hidden than found. The killers were still there."
I touch my throat, the ruined tissue that speaks louder than words ever could. Her eyes track the movement, and I remember her tongue on these scars, tasting my damage while my cock was buried inside her. She's seen these scars before, traced them with her fingers just days ago. But now she understands their true meaning: not random violence, but the price of refusing to betray her family.
"They took me. Three days." My hands shake now, remembering. "They wanted a confession. Wanted me on video admitting the Rosettis ordered the hit."
The memory of those three days overlaps with tonight's discovery. Blood and truth, then and now. Screams in the air. The copper scent of secrets finally revealed.
"I refused. Wouldn't lie. So they made sure I could never tell the truth either."
Ana reaches toward my throat, then pulls back. The space between us crackles with everything we've done. Every touch,every fuck, every moment of violence and pleasure mixed until we can't separate them.
"But after we were married, you could have told me the truth."
"Would you have believed me?" I ask.
She shakes her head, the movement small and broken.
"Exactly." The sign is violent. "Besides, your hatred kept you alive. Gave you purpose when everything else was gone."
I stand slowly, my cock straining against my pants. Fuck. Even now. Even explaining why I let her torture me, my body wants hers. Wants to press her against that desk where I took her virginity and show her that truth changes nothing.
She tracks my movement, and I catch her gaze dropping to the obvious bulge. Her thighs press together, and I know. Know she's wet despite everything. We're both twisted. Both ruined. Both unable to separate violence from arousal, truth from desire.
My hands move carefully: "The marriage contract. I'll have it dissolved."
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating. Not just from tears.
"You're free, Ana." The signs feel like ripping my own chest open. "Free to leave. Free to stay. Free to hate me for letting you believe a lie."
The space between us thrums with electricity. Detroit is still out there. The war isn't over. She's still in danger, still needs protection. But I'm giving her the choice.
"Take your time," I sign, backing toward the door. Not from respect. From self-preservation. If I stay another minute, I'll do what every instinct demands: claim her on this floor surrounded by evidence of my innocence. Make her scream my name until she forgets everything but who she belongs to.
At the threshold, I turn back. She's still kneeling there, nightgown rucked up, tears streaming, looking destroyed and perfect. My cock throbs painfully.
"For what it's worth," I sign, each movement precise despite the chaos in my chest. "These two weeks, your hatred, your attempts, even your knife at my throat, worth everything."
My night clothes fall about my elbows as I force my hands to continue: "You lived. You survived. That's all I wanted."
I make myself walk through the door before I break. Before I cross back to her and show her with my body what my ruined voice can't say. That she's mine. That the truth changes nothing. That I'd become her monster again if that's what she needed.
