Page 10 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

T he fight leaves her body all at once, like she suddenly realizes the futility of struggling. Good. I'm not in the mood for further complications tonight.

"Stay put," I growl, leaning across her to grab the seatbelt.

Her breath catches as my chest brushes against hers. I freeze, our faces inches apart. Those ice-blue eyes lock with mine. For a moment, everything stills. The tension between us shifts into something electric and dangerous.

I click the seatbelt into place, the sound unusually loud in the silent car. A loose strand of her hair falls across her face, and I reach up without thinking, tucking it behind her ear. My fingers linger against her skin a half-second longer than they should.

"Don't try that again," I mutter, pulling away and slamming her door shut.

The driver's seat feels miles away from her when I slide in. I start the engine and pull out of the compound, heading for the country house where she'll be safe. For miles, there's only silence between us. She stares out the window, and I keep my eyes on the road.

I glance at Sienna's profile, illuminated by passing streetlights. Her jaw is set, shoulders rigid with tension, but I can see the exhaustion in the slight tremor of her hands.

I guide the SUV through the night, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing mile.

Her shoulders remain tight, hands clasped in her lap like she's ready to bolt despite the seatbelt keeping her in place.

Every few minutes, I catch her scanning the surroundings, memorizing the route or looking for escape opportunities.

The quiet is suffocating.

I reach for the radio then pause, glancing at her profile in the dim dashboard light. "What kind of music do you like?"

She startles slightly, turning just enough to eye me with suspicion.

"I'm not asking for your deepest secrets," I say, keeping my voice casual. "Just thought we could use some background noise besides the engine."

She returns to staring out the window.

"Let me guess," I continue, undeterred. "Classical? You seem like the type who appreciates Chopin."

Nothing.

"Or maybe heavy metal? Headbanging seems therapeutic." I mime a quick head-bang while keeping my eyes on the road. "Great outlet for aggression."

The corner of her mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly.

"Pop? Country? Please don't say country. I'll have to reconsider this whole protection arrangement." I'm not usually this talkative, but something about her stubborn silence makes me want to crack it open.

She shifts in her seat, and I catch the faintest shadow of a smile before she presses her lips together again.

"You know what? I'll decide." I press the radio button and start flipping through stations. News. Static. Some god-awful techno. I stop on a station playing old 80s rock. "How's this?"

When she doesn't object, I leave it on low volume, just enough to fill the space between us.

"I get it," I say after a while. "This isn't exactly how you planned your evening. But it's better than whatever alternative you were running toward."

Her hands tighten in her lap.

"You weren't running toward anything, were you?" I realize. "Just away. With no plan."

The muscles in her jaw flex as she clenches her teeth.

"That's the problem with running, Sienna. Without somewhere to go, you just end up lost. Or worse—found by the wrong people."

The shadow smile appears again, but there's no humor in it. It's a bitter acknowledgment that I've hit on something true.

T he 80s rock continues to blast through the speakers as we drive. Enzo taps his fingers against the steering wheel, matching the beat of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" like this is some normal road trip instead of... whatever this is.

I press myself against the door, keeping as much distance between us as possible. My fingers twist nervously in the hem of my shirt. Every few seconds, Enzo glances my way, probably checking if I'm plotting another escape.

"You like this song?" he asks, his deep voice competing with Steve Perry's vocals.

I stare out the window, watching trees flash by in the darkness. If I jumped out now at this speed, I'd probably break my neck. Maybe that wouldn't be the worst outcome.

My throat feels tight, heart hammering against my ribs. I want to speak, to act normal, but fear crushes my chest like a vise.

We turn onto a narrow road, headlights illuminating a dense forest on either side. This is truly the middle of nowhere. My stomach twists with renewed anxiety. No witnesses. No one to hear if I scream.

After what feels like hours, the SUV slows as we approach a large silhouette against the night sky. A house—no, more like a cabin, but massive. Two stories of what looks like timber and stone, surrounded by nothing but wilderness .

Enzo kills the engine and the sudden silence feels heavy.

He exits the vehicle and walks around to my side. When he opens my door, I remain frozen in place, seatbelt still fastened across my chest.

"Sienna." His voice has that edge of authority that makes my skin crawl. "We're here. Let's go inside."

I stare at Enzo's extended hand, bile rising in my throat. My mind whirls with panic as another voice, another time, echoes through my memory.

" Let's go inside. "

The words punch through me, and suddenly I'm not in Enzo's car anymore.

I'm sixteen again, standing in the foyer of Mr. Edwards' beach house. Father had sent me to "entertain" his business associate. Α man three times my age with breath that smelled of cigars and whiskey. His meaty hand closed around my wrist, pulling me toward the stairs.

"Let's go inside, shall we?" His voice had been syrupy, practiced. "I've had a suite prepared just for us."

I remember how my feet had felt cemented to the floor, how my breath caught when his grip tightened enough to bruise.

That night, I learned exactly what Father's business associates expected from their "entertainment." I spent the next morning covering bruises with makeup, my body aching in places I didn't know could hurt.

"Sienna!"

I blink, snapping back to reality. Enzo stands by the open car door, his expression unreadable in the darkness. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I realize I'm hyperventilating.

I shake my head slightly, fingers gripping the seat beneath me. Inside means trapped. Inside means alone with him.

Enzo exhales slowly, leaning against the doorframe. "I can't leave you out here all night."

My eyes dart from him to the dark forest beyond. There's nowhere to run. Nothing but miles of wilderness I'd never survive.

"Don't make me carry you again," he warns, but there's something almost playful in his tone now. "Though I get the feeling you must have enjoyed it last time, since you're trying to make it happen again."

Heat rushes to my cheeks at his teasing, anger pushing through my fear. "I didn't—" The words catch in my throat, my voice rusty from disuse.

His mouth quirks up at the corner, satisfaction clear on his face at getting me to speak. "She talks. Progress."

I glare at him, hating how easily he maneuvers me into reactions.

"So what's it going to be, piccola? Your own two feet or thrown over my shoulder again?"

I press further back into my seat, arms crossed, letting my silence speak for me. I won't walk willingly into another prison, no matter how beautiful it might be.

Enzo watches me for a long moment, eyes darkening with what might be amusement.

"Stubborn," he murmurs.

Before I can react, he leans in, one arm sliding behind my back, the other beneath my knees. My body goes rigid as he unbuckles my seatbelt with practiced ease.

"Don't—" I start to protest.

"Too late," he says, lifting me from the seat as though I weigh nothing.

I should fight, scratch, scream. Αnything to assert some control. Instead, I find myself frozen. Just like I do every single time someone makes me do something I don't want to.

His chest is solid against my side.

"This could have been avoided if you'd just walked," he says, kicking the car door shut with his foot. His voice rumbles through his chest and against my ribs.

Heat crawls up my neck as he carries me toward the house. "I can walk now."

"And miss this moment?" He glances down, eyes glittering in the moonlight. "Not a chance, piccola."

The way the Italian endearment rolls off his tongue sends an unwelcome shiver through me. I force myself to look away from his face, those dangerous eyes.

He manages the front door one-handed, never loosening his grip on me, and steps into the dark house. After a moment, lights flicker on automatically.

"Welcome to your temporary home," Enzo says, finally setting me down in what appears to be a spacious entryway. My legs feel unsteady beneath me as his hands leave my body.

The cabin is nothing like I expected—modern luxury disguised as rustic charm. Polished wooden floors stretch before us, leading to an open-concept living area with cathedral ceilings.

"Feel free to look around while I bring in our supplies," he says, gesturing broadly. "Food, clothes, necessities. I'll be making several trips."

I remain rooted to the spot, unsure if this is some kind of test.

"Go on," he encourages. "The place is secure—no point trying to run into those woods at night. You'd be lost in minutes, if the wildlife didn't get you first. "

With that cheerful warning, he turns and heads back outside.

I wait until I hear him at the car before I move, drawn toward what looks like a kitchen at the back of the house. My footsteps echo in the silence as I step into the space.

The kitchen is all warm woods and gleaming copper. A large farmhouse sink sits beneath a window that must overlook the forest during daylight. Copper pots hang from a rack above a massive island, and the stone countertops look worn from actual use.

It reminds me, painfully, of my mother's kitchen from before—the one she'd designed herself when I was small. Before my father gutted the space and replaced it with something cold and impersonal, erasing her presence from our home just as he'd tried to erase her from my memory.

I run my fingers along the wooden island, feeling its smooth, worn surface. This is a kitchen where people actually cook, where they gather and talk. Not like the showpiece in my father's house, used only by staff who disappear the moment their tasks are complete.