Page 41 of Ruthless Grace

He uses his fingers to trace the long, tight lines of my forearm, kneading from my wrist all the way up to my elbow. His hands are rough and covered in old scars from a decade of underworld war: hands that have pulled triggers, signed execution orders, and broken bones.

And now those same lethal hands are working through my muscle, finger by finger, with a reverent, suffocating tenderness that terrifies me a thousand times more than his gun ever could.

“Ah... God,” I gasp, my fingers twitching as the blinding ache in my forearm finally breaks, dissolving into a deep, melting warmth.

Luca shifts his focus to my fingers. He takes my index finger between his thumb and forefinger, pulling with firm, steady pressure, stretching the joint until a soft pop echoes in the quiet room. He works his way down every single finger—thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky—kneading the thick muscle between my knuckles, working the salve deep into my skin until my right hand lies completely soft, warm, and pliable in his palm.

My body goes limp against his chest. Every drop of surgical armor I’ve built over years is melting away under the slow, steady rhythm of his hands.

He reaches for my left hand.

“You don’t have to do this,” I whisper, my voice thick, raw, and barely audible over the sound of the rain drumming against the glass. “You don’t owe me anything for Gianni. You don’t have to pay me back.”

Luca stops. His hands freeze over my wrist.

He tilts his head down, his dark, obsidian eyes locking onto mine in the dim amber glow of the fire. The cold, teasing Don mask is entirely gone. Beneath it lies a dark, feral intensity that makes my breath catch in my throat.

“I’m not paying you back, principessa,” he rasps, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper that cuts straight through my soul. “And I don’t care about Gianni.”

He digs his thumb into the locked muscle of my left palm, making me gasp aloud as he begins kneading the second hand with the same brutal care.

“I care about these hands,” he growls, his thumb sliding over my pulse point. “The hands that saved my soldier. The hands that wrote black ink on my contract. The hands that belong to my wife.”

My heart does a terrifying, violent leap in my chest.

I look up at his sharp, marble jawline, at the dark shadow of stubble along his cheek, at the fierce, possessive focus in his dark eyes as he works through every knot in my left forearm.

I hate him.

I hate him because he and Dante traded my freedom like an asset on a ledger. I hate him because he’s an enemy Don who represents generations of blood against my family name.

But as I lie against his rigid chest, feeling the deep, intoxicating relief washing through my muscles, a single, devastating thought pierces through the darkness of my mind:

I hate him because he’s giving me the one thing no man in my family ever gave me: somewhere to put it down.

My brothers called me their miracle. They called me their grace. They expected me to stitch their men, deliver their heirs, and hold their world together without ever showing a crack. Luca Valentino saw the crack. And instead of using it to break me, he sat me on his lap and rubbed the pain away.

By the time he finishes my left pinky finger, my hands are completely relaxed, warm, and resting flat over the dark wool of his trousers. My eyelids feel impossibly heavy, the sixteen-hour surgery and the overwhelming sensory overload finally pulling me under into deep, suffocating exhaustion.

Luca doesn’t push me off his lap. He doesn’t tell me to go to my separate bed.

He sweeps his broad arm around my waist, pulling me tighter against his chest, letting my head rest comfortably in the crook of his neck.

“Sleep, principessa,” he whispers, his voice soft, rough, and strangely quiet in the dark.

I don’t argue. I don’t pull back. I shut my eyes, breathing in the scent of cedar, old wine, and unscented arnica salve, and let myself fall into the deepest, most dreamless sleep I’ve known since walking into his house.

The war is still outside the gates. My contract is still on the nightstand.

But tonight, the enemy’s hands are the only thing keeping me whole.

16

LUCA

The heavy brass key feels cold in my palm.

She woke alone in that armchair—I know, because I set her boots by the door myself before midnight.