Page 145 of The Savage

She pats his chest but doesn’t say anything.

He looks around the room, authority brimming from his grey eyes. ‘Wheels up in an hour. With every one of you on board. Capisci?’

21

GIADA

The bathroom is still fogged from the heat when Renzo locks the door behind us.

For the first time since the world exploded in bullets and slashing knives in Ragusa, it’s just us.

Not that I’ve forgotten all the pain and anguish and fury from the street or downstairs, but at least no eyes are watching to see if I’ll break again.

The shower turns on with a hiss, steam rising fast, but Renzo doesn’t rush me.

He reaches for me slowly, fingers brushing my wrist, my elbow, my shoulder, like he’s checking that I’m real and unhurt.

I am.

‘You okay?’ he rasps.

I nod. ‘I think so.’

That earns me a small, crooked smile. The one he used to give me when he was pretending not to worry.

He helps me out of my clothes with a gentleness that almost hurts. When I’m bare, I feel a flicker of shyness I didn’t expect. My body remembers him before my mind did. Now it’s the other way around.

Renzo steps under the spray and holds out his hand. ‘Come here.’

He leans his forehead to mine as we stand under the spray, letting the water wash away the grime of violence. I’m a little sad that it’s also washing away the heady delights of the perfect day that came before it.

The hot water beats against my back, my shoulders. He reaches for the soap and works it into his hands, then smooths it over my arms, my neck, my hair. His touch is reverent and possessive. Familiar in a way that makes my throat tighten.

He starts quietly. ‘Remember when I kissed you the first time?’

I laugh softly. ‘You mean when you stole it.’

His mouth curves. ‘You leaned in.’

‘I was angry,’ I say.

‘You always are.’

He rinses the soap from my shoulders, thumbs brushing the line of my collarbone. ‘You tasted like wine and bad decisions.’

‘I bit you because you frightened me, grabbing me outside the bakery.’ I don’t need to tell him I frequented that bakery in the Lower East Side because I knew it was the Salvatore family favourite. I confessed this a very long time ago.

‘You drew blood.’

I smile at the memory. It blooms warm in my chest, solid and bright.

He moves lower, washing my back, my waist, his hands sure, unhurried. The water runs between us, carrying everything else away.

‘Remember when you tried to sneak out of the hotel room I booked for our second time?’ he asks.

‘I made it to the door.’

‘You forgot your shoes.’