Page 76 of The Savage

I touch the edge of my wimple, feel the fabric tremble between my fingers, and know without knowing why that I will take it off soon, and that when I do, the world will tilt, and I will not fall.

Not alone.

* * *

It takes me nearly an hour to pick a dress, and when I finally do, even I can tell it’s an act of petty rebellion disguised as piety.

The wardrobe is full of silks and colours that look like summer had too much to drink, but I choose the one that could almost pass for a habit.

It’s long, high-necked, black as a secret with sleeves that taper modestly at my wrists, the skirt skimming my ankles. I even keep my wimple, smoothing it until it gleams like surrender.

When I catch my reflection, I snort softly. I look like the world’s most defiant nun about to attend her own exorcism.

He deserves it.

When I step onto the terrace, the first thing I notice is the glistening sea. The second is the table: linen, candles, silverware, two glasses catching the sunset like flames. The third is Renzo, standing by the balustrade, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled, hair rumpled from his hands.

His cast is half-covered by his sleeve and sling. But even wounded he moves like the world still answers to him.

He turns. His eyes sweep me once. Stop. Sweep again. His mouth opens. Then he barks out a laugh so sharp it startles the gulls.

‘Dio santo,’ he says, pressing a hand to his chest. ‘You’ve got a death wish.’

I blink, taken aback. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He gestures at my outfit, grinning. ‘The whole get up. You’re mocking me. And fuelling all sorts of fantasies.’

‘I am not!’

‘Oh, you are.’ His grin widens into something wicked and fond. ‘Well played, angel. If you didn’t look so damn beautiful, I’d put you over my knee and spank you for this insolence.’

The words hit like a filthy curse in a cathedral. I gasp, scandal and heat warring in my blood. ‘You wouldn’t dare!’

‘Oh, I would.’ He limps closer, lowering his voice. ‘You’ve no idea how much I would. But that’s not how I want our first real evening to go.’

He moves past me to pull out a chair, and I stand there, heart hammering, trying to recall how to breathe. I sit because refusing feels like losing.

‘You’re outrageous,’ I mutter.

He pours wine, crimson and velvet. ‘You bring it out in me. And one of these days I’m going to tell you what your favourite swear word is.’

I shake my head and fold my hands in my lap, pretending to study the food – grilled swordfish, roasted peppers, caponata. Everything gleams. ‘Did you cook this?’

‘Do I look like a man who cooks?’

‘Yes.’

He pauses, tilts his head, amused. ‘Interesting. You think I’m domestic?’

‘I think you like control,’ I say, surprising myself with the honesty. ‘Cooking is just another way of… directing outcomes.’

His eyes spark. ‘You’re learning. But not in this case. I leave the cooking to Rafaelle, my brother. He was taught by…’ He stops himself, purses his lips and shakes his head.

The butler arrives whisper quiet and we’re served.

We eat in companionable silence at first. The wine is sweet and dark; the food tastes like sunlight. I try not to enjoy it, but pleasure sneaks past my guard in tiny betrayals – the sigh when I taste the first bite, the smile that slips before I catch it.

He watches everything. Always watching.