Page 91 of The Savage

Or unholy.

Depends who you ask.

Giada stands by the wrought-iron railing overlooking the sea, clutching her coffee cup the way she held my shoulders last night, tight, trembling, as if she’s terrified she’ll fall if she lets go. And when she went… holy shit, I’ll never forget it as long as I live.

And fuck me, she looks…

She looks like my ruin.

She’s wearing one of the dresses I handpicked for her. Pale lavender, soft and flowing, cinched with a delicate tie at her waist. The sleeves skim her wrists like whispered reminders of her old life, but the neckline dips just enough to tease me with the memory of my mouth there hours ago.

But it’s her hair that gets me.

It’s still up. Pulled into the most severe knot I’ve ever seen – tight, prim, school-mistress rigid. A knot so modest it should have its own confession booth.

I step forward, drop a kiss at her shoulder just to feel her shiver.

‘You know,’ I murmur into her skin, ‘if you walked into a classroom looking like that knot, every student would sit straighter.’

She whirls around and glares. ‘It’s practical.’

‘It’s criminal,’ I correct, laughing as she smacks my chest. ‘After last night? After the perfectly dirty way you got on your hands and knees for me this morning? And you show up wearing your hair like you’re about to teach arithmetic to delinquent angels?’

Her lashes quiver exquisitely. ‘You’re crude and rude, Signore Salvatore.’

‘And you’re adorable when you’re pretending you’re not tempted to let it down.’

Her cheeks flush a soft, gorgeous pink, then she turns away with a huff, but her shoulders relax, and that small shift – that tiny softening – is enough to make my pulse punch through my ribs. ‘Come, let’s eat,’ I say before I do the next crude thing and fuck her standing up right here on this terrace.

We sit.

And for a moment, it almost feels normal. Domestic. Like there isn’t a ticking clock strapped to our backs and a dark pocket full of enemies sharpening knives with our names on them.

The feelers I’ve put out on Madre Superiora haven’t turned up anything interesting, yet. But today, I intend to tighten the screws.

The table is laid with her favourites again – brioche dripping with honey, fresh berries, ricotta, toasted almonds, blood-orange slices, warm focaccia brushed with rosemary and olive oil. I’ve watched what she gravitates to, memorised every small delight her face gives away.

She bites into a piece of brioche and her eyes flutter shut.

That sound she makes – the quietest hum of pleasure – nearly undoes me.

‘Let’s clear up a few things, hmm?’ I say finally, leaning back, stretching my leg beneath the table until my foot nudges hers.

She tenses.

Of course she does.

She thinks I’m about to take something from her.

But I’m only claiming what already belongs to me.

‘I see you bracing,’ I continue. ‘Don’t. I’m not here to reassure you. I won’t always be able to. And you’ – I point my fork at her heart – ‘you need your fire. You had it once. You’ll have it again.’

That earns me a thin-lipped look of warning.

‘But,’ I add, ‘I’m going to remind you of something I’ve told you before, and will again. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. You got away from me once – fine. The Man Upstairs scooped you up for a while. Fair dues. But He and you should understand something…’

I reach across the table, slide my hand to her cheek, thumb tracing her blush.