Page 46 of The Savage

I keep my eyes closed, pretending to sleep.

It’s fascinating, watching her debate what to do.

Her brow creases as if she’s calculating how much sin is in simply watching me. Then her gaze softens. She traces the line of my jaw with her eyes, studying the bruises there, the faint scar near my temple.

When her eyes settle on my mouth and her tongue darts out to wet her lips, I nearly groan.

If this is her version of fighting temptation, I’m in deep fucking trouble.

She raises her free hand, hesitates, fingers trembling in the air as though reaching for something she doesn’t understand. The instinct to let her touch me wars with the desire to grab her wrist and make her admit she remembers.

Before either of us can act, a knock sounds at the door, and I fight a thick curse. Whoever it is is going to pay for the interruption.

She startles, snatching her hand back like she’s been burned.

‘Enter,’ I bark, eyes snapping open.

The door handle rattles but nothing happens. I sigh, hand over the key and she goes to unlock it. She’s back by my side when it opens and the doctor steps in, flanked by his junior and two nurses, clipboard already in hand.

‘Good morning, Signore,’ he says carefully. ‘How are we feeling today?’

‘Like I got run over by a British curse disguised as an engine,’ I mutter. ‘What do you want?’

‘Well, you asked me to be here at seven?’

I grunt. It feels like it was five minutes ago. I move in the bed, noting that I’m better rested. That my ribs don’t feel like they’re about to skewer me.

Rock the fuck on, little mercies.

The doctor moves to check the monitors. His tone has the polite but cautious tone of a man handling live ammunition. ‘Your pressure is much improved. With your permission, I’ll take some bloods and run a few tests?’

I catch Giada’s eyes still lingering on my mouth before they flick up to mine. I raise my brow and on cue, her face lights up with a blush. ‘Sure, take my blood.’

The nurses get to work quickly and hightail it out of the room like their asses are on fire.

‘Now, what do you need?’ the doctor asks.

‘I requested certain… personnel. Have they arrived?’

The doctor nods. ‘Sì, nine men arrived this morning. I believe they’re to be your new personal guard?’

‘Yes. I want three stationed outside that door, and three more around the grounds.’

‘Bene.’

I tear my gaze from Giada’s. ‘And let’s do something about this set up. Bring in a small desk and two chairs for your therapy sessions. And organise some food for her. Proper food. Not that monastery slop she’s used to.’

The doctor glances between us. ‘Of course.’ He scribbles a note, clears his throat. ‘And perhaps we can have a cot brought in for the sister, so she might rest. The chair isn’t the place to⁠—’

‘No.’

The single word snaps out, sharp as a whip.

Giada flinches, then she glares at me.

‘Then the… Signorina will be returning to her own quarters?’ the doctor asks.

‘No, she will not. But there will be no cot,’ I say again, slower. ‘She will be staying here in this room. So you will bring me a bigger bed that we can share.’