Page 36 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

A few days later…

I'm still walking on clouds.

Or maybe floating in some warm, sparkly haze made entirely of the memory of him . His hands. His mouth. The way he looked at me when I shattered in his arms.

It's been days, but my skin still tingles like I never left the lake.

Like his touch is still ghosting across my body, curling low in my stomach, making me blush at completely inappropriate moments.

I accidentally dropped a spoon at breakfast yesterday morning, and when I bent to pick it up, a memory of his curled fingers inside me flashed by, sending jolts of electricity through me that left my panties drenched.

God.

What is wrong with me?

We've seen each other around the house since then.

At meals, in the evening, and a couple of times in the middle of the day.

Once he passed me in the hallway and winked; it was nothing but a quick flicker, but the heat that rushed through me made my knees threaten mutiny.

Another time, he pulled me into the butler's pantry when no one was watching, pressed me against the cool shelves, and kissed me until I forgot my name, then walked away without a word, leaving me dazed and panting like I'd stepped out of a dream.

I don't know what we are.

Are we anything?

I mean, he's Enrico Sartori. Thirty years old. A walking storm of dark suits and darker eyes. The next boss of the Sartori family. A man with blood on his hands and secrets in his past.

And me?

I'm nineteen. Barely. I've never had a boyfriend. Never gone on a date. Never kissed anyone before him. I've spent the last fourteen years learning how to disappear, how to endure, how to survive without breaking.

He's seen the world. I've barely seen daylight.

I don't know why he wants me.

And it's not false modesty; I'm not fishing for compliments in my own head.

I just… I don't understand what he sees when he looks at me.

I'm not glamorous or smooth. I stumble over my words sometimes, and I don't know how to flirt.

My body's not anything special. I've been invisible for so long, it's still a shock when someone sees me at all.

But he does see me. And when he touches me, it's like I become someone else. Or maybe just more myself than I've ever been.

Still… I don't know where this is going.

I wish I could talk to someone about it. Just… process it. Ask if it's normal to feel like your body has been lit on fire from the inside out. If it's okay that I keep dreaming about him. Needing him. Wanting him to look at me again like I'm the only thing in the room that matters.

Izzy would understand the butterflies part. But she's his sister . Talking to her about the way her brother made me come in a lake just feels… wrong.

Sabine? I don't know. She's a little distant. Kind, but reserved, like there's a wall around her I haven't earned the right to climb. Plus, confiding in her feels like a betrayal of Izzy's trust somehow. I don't want to be the girl gossiping about the Sartori brother she's closest to.

So I'm left with my thoughts. My swirling, fluttery, all-consuming thoughts. And every time I close my eyes, I feel his mouth on my throat. His fingers on my skin. His voice in my ear. Come on my fingers, Piccolina.

My breath catches just remembering it.

Whatever this is between us… it's bigger than I expected. Bigger than I'm ready for. But I don't want to run. Not this time. Not from him.

I just wish I knew where it was going. If he's feeling even half of what I am.

Because if he is?

God help me… I'm already his.

A knock on the doorframe startles me from the spiral of my thoughts.

I jerk upright, and my heart leaps into my throat.

Enrico stands there, casually leaning against the wood, arms crossed, wearing that same expression that always undoes me, cool control overlaid with heat.

His dark eyes sweep over me once, slow and deliberate, making me quiver all over.

"How long have you been standing there?" I manage to utter breathily.

"Long enough," he replies, his lips twitching with amusement. "You always get that dazed when you're thinking about me?"

My cheeks flush so fast it's a wonder I don't combust. "I—what—I wasn't?—"

He pushes off the frame and stalks toward me, every step sure, powerful, predatory. I feel suddenly very small, very warm, and very much like prey.

"I was downstairs," he says, voice low and rich. "Trying to be good. Give you space."

He stops just in front of me, lifts his hand, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger. "But you looked so pretty at breakfast, and I couldn't stop thinking about you. So I came to find you, to collect."

"Collect what?" I whisper, even though I already know the answer.

He smiles, dark and sure. "That kiss I've been thinking about all day."

And just like that, I'm breathless all over again.

His lips brush mine tenderly, yet somehow utterly possessive, liquifying my insides and melting me into the chair I'm sitting on.

His hand is still on my jaw, his body so close I can feel the heat of him through every layer.

He's not moving, and neither am I. The air between us is thick with tension—sweet and heavy—until a soft knock startles me back into my skin.

"Oh, here you are." Eliza's voice is breezy, amused, and far too knowing. "I've been looking for you, Cat."

She walks in like she owns the room—because, let's be real, she does—and heads straight for Enrico. "I haven't seen you all day," she scolds lightly, brushing a kiss against his cheek.

Enrico steps back, and his smirk is smug as hell. My entire body is on fire. Blushing doesn't even begin to cover it—I feel scorched. I glance at him, silently pleading for backup, but he just lifts one shoulder like: You're on your own, Piccolina.

"I was wondering," Eliza says, turning back to me like she didn't just walk in on a moment hotter than the sun, "if you could help me put an outfit together? I've got that charity ball this weekend, and if I wear one more pale blue Valentino, I might scream."

"Of course," I manage, my voice somehow functional. "I'd love to."

I follow her from the room, still feeling the imprint of Enrico's body against mine, still tasting his kiss on my lips, and wondering just how much Eliza saw. And why he looked so damn pleased about it.

Eliza's dressing room is bigger than a bedroom—every surface gleams, from the gold-accented vanity to the mirrored walls lined with endless racks of couture.

I follow her in, still slightly in awe, even after spending the last few days wrapped in silks and cashmere I never dreamed I'd touch, much less wear.

"So, this charity ball this weekend," Eliza says, already flipping through hangers with practiced ease. "I'm expected to show up looking like I haven't aged in fifteen years. God forbid they realize I'm human."

"You look amazing," I reply honestly. "But I can help. That navy Marchesa would be stunning with your skin tone. Or—" I step forward, touching the sleeve of a soft champagne Elie Saab gown "—this. With your hair in that updo you wore at dinner last night?"

She pauses, tilting her head at the gown. "Hmm. You're right. That would be striking. You've got an eye for this, Cat."

I shrug, shy but pleased. "I've always loved fashion. I just never had the clothes to experiment with it the way I would have liked to."

She smiles at me in the mirror. A smile that warms my heart. "You've got the instinct. That's harder to learn. And now you have the resources to make your dreams come true too."

While she slips behind a screen—a screen!

Who has a screen in their closet?—to change, I wander toward the vanity, running a finger lightly over the perfume bottles and delicate jewelry boxes.

My reflection looks… different here. It takes me a moment to realize that it's the lightning, which imitates candlelight, making everything softer.

"By the way," I call, "thank you again. For hosting my family. For all of this. I know it's… a lot."

Eliza steps out wearing the gown, straightening it at the waist before turning to look in the mirror. I was right, the color sets a sheen to her skin that makes it look like a painting. "It's no trouble at all. Truly. I like your family. And I really like you. "

Her voice softens, as if she means it more than she's willing to say outright. Then, after a moment, she sighs and sits at the edge of the chaise lounge.

"I suppose I shouldn't say this, but… Enrico's always been different. He's the firstborn, you know. Groomed from the start to take over the family one day. Everything was always about the responsibility . The name. The legacy."

I nod slowly, even as my heart sinks in my chest. Of course, he was. I fear I might know where she is going with this.

"He takes it all so seriously," she continues.

"Has ever since he was a boy. Never gave us trouble, never questioned the weight we placed on him.

But there are… expectations. You understand.

One day, he's supposed to marry a mafia princess.

Someone with connections. Power. A strategic alliance, not just a love match. "

My breath catches. There it is. The warning. I can see it in her eyes, too. I keep my face still, my fingers fuss with a delicate Dior clutch on the side table so she doesn't see how much those words gut me.

Of course he is.

What did I think? That the future capo of the Sartori family would settle down with a girl like me?

A rescued hostage with secondhand dreams and a mangled past?

I'm just a silly girl with silly hopes. A few stolen moments.

A kiss I haven't stopped thinking about.

His hands in my hair. His breath on my lips. A man ten years older than me.

But God, that kiss and the naughty things he did to my body in the water. How is a girl just to forget about that? Go on with her life? I'm aware that I don't have any experience when it comes to sex, but I know with absolute certainty that no man will ever make my body sing the way he did.

I press the edge of my nails into my palm until it stings, fighting the tears that want to flow and calling myself stupid again.

Perhaps Camilla was right; perhaps I am just a spoiled little girl who can never be grateful for what I've been given.

I should be grateful that I'm finally with my family again.

A dream I've harbored since I was taken away from them has come true.

I should be ecstatic. And I am. I really am.

But the problem is, I want more. I want it all.

Always more, right, Cat? Camilla's mocking voice echoes in my head. She was right. I still want more. After having my freedom and my family, it's still not enough for me.

"Cat?" Eliza asks, eyes narrowing slightly. "Are you alright?"

I force a smile. "Yeah. Just thinking… this," I gesture at the dress she's wearing, "would be even better with these crystal-drop earrings."

Eliza disappears behind the screen again, but her voice floats out, thoughtful now. "He's different with you, you know."

I blink. "What?"

She reappears with a different pair of shoes in hand, holding them up against the gown, then sets them aside again. "Enrico. He's showing a side I've never seen before. Not even when he was younger."

I try to keep my face neutral, my voice light. "Different how?"

Eliza doesn't smile this time. She sits down again, smoothing the fabric over her legs, her tone quieter now. "Softer. Lighter. I've seen him smile more in the past week than in the last five years combined. And not the polite kind. Real smiles."

My heart thumps so hard I fear she can hear it.

"He seems…" She trails off, searching for the word, then settles on "happier. And that matters more to me than alliances or bloodlines. I've always wanted my son to be many things—but most of all, I want him to be whole. "

I can't look at her. Because if I do, I think I'll fall apart. I know what she's talking about. Over the last few days, something has started forming between us, a kind of quiet rhythm.

Most evenings, after everything settles down, Enrico and I go for walks together, just the two of us and Shadow.

Sometimes, I stay and watch while he trains the older dogs.

Enrico is always focused, precise, commanding…

and Shadow, despite being too young and clumsy, tries to imitate the grown shepherds.

It makes Enrico laugh—actually laugh—and once, I caught him calling the puppy little soldier.

Those are the moments I feel closest to him. When the world softens at the edges, and it's just the three of us. Like maybe—just maybe—this strange new life could be real.

My heart thumps even harder, and I throw a surreptitious look at Eliza to see if she can hear it, but I can't look straight at her.

Because if I do, I worry I'll fall apart.

My throat tightens. A part of me wants to believe what she's saying.

But another part—louder, crueler—keeps whispering that I'm the reason he's vulnerable.

That I'm distracting him. That I'm a weakness he can't afford.

"He shouldn't change because of me," I murmur.

Eliza tilts her head. "Why not?"

"Because this life doesn't allow softness," I say, barely louder than a breath.

A silence falls between us.

Then Eliza stands, crosses the room, and gently takes my hands in hers.

"You've survived more than most women ever will," she says. "Don't you dare call yourself less."

I bite my lip, hard enough to taste copper from my blood. Eliza lets go of my hands, but her gaze stays locked with mine. There's something maternal in it—soft and steady. She reaches for the earrings I suggested and holds them up to her ears, then glances at me through the mirror.

I turn my attention back to the dress before the emotion tips over the edge. "You'll be the most beautiful woman at that ball," I say, straightening her sleeve.

She smiles, a little brighter this time. "Not if you and Izzy come with me."

I laugh lightly, certain she must be joking. Still, part of me wonders what it would be like. To walk into a room beside the Sartoris, not as their guest. Not as someone they rescued. But as someone who belongs.