Page 11 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

I step back inside the cabin, arms full of bags.

Sienna stands by the wide kitchen window, fingers tracing the wooden trim that frames the glass.

She's a haunted silhouette against the dark forest outside, all long lines and tension.

Her shoulders hunch slightly, like she's trying to make herself smaller—invisible, even.

The door closes behind me with a soft thud, and she startles, spinning to face me. For a split second, her mask slips, and I catch a glimpse of something raw in her expression before she rebuilds her walls.

"Find anything interesting?" I ask, setting the bags on the counter.

She shakes her head, eyes darting to the bags then back to me. "No."

But she's lying. Something about this kitchen has touched a nerve. Her fingers still rest against the window frame, and there's a softness to her mouth that wasn't there before.

I unpack quickly, setting out essentials. "You hungry?"

"No." The same flat response, but her eyes follow my movements.

"You'll need to eat eventually, piccola."

I watch her as I put away the last items. She's still standing by that window, looking lost and small in clothes that don't belong to her. The sadness radiating from her is almost tangible—a heavy, living thing filling the room.

"I need a shower," I say, breaking the silence. "Been a long day."

She doesn't respond, just keeps looking out the window like she might find answers in the darkness.

I move closer, not touching her but close enough that she tenses again. "Sienna."

Her name gets her attention. Those ice-blue eyes shift to mine, wary and watchful.

"I'm going to take a shower. It'll be about fifteen minutes." I hold her gaze, making sure she understands what I'm about to say. "Don't try anything stupid while I'm in there."

She bristles slightly, chin lifting. "Like what?"

"Like running into those woods." I gesture toward the window she's been staring through. "There are bears, coyotes, and about a thousand ways to get lost and never be found."

Her jaw tightens. "I wasn't?—"

"Yes, you were." I cut her off, not unkindly. "You were calculating your odds. But out there, piccola? Your odds are zero."

The moonlight filtering through the window catches on her hair, turning the brown strands almost silver. Despite the bruises and the wariness, she's beautiful. "Though I'd recommend that shower for you too."

She shifts her weight, clearly uncomfortable with my scrutiny.

"Or..." I let my voice drop lower, a hint of teasing slipping in. "You could always join me in mine. Save water. Very environmentally conscious."

Her eyes widen, a flash of outrage replacing the fear. Pink blooms across her cheeks as her mouth opens, then closes again. She's struggling to maintain her composure, caught between anger and—something else.

The corner of her mouth twitches, just barely. She's fighting not to smile.

"I'm just saying—" I continue, enjoying this tiny crack in her armor, "—we'd be doing the planet a favor."

"You're—" She cuts herself off, pressing her lips together firmly.

But I catch it—that slight tremor in her voice isn't fear or anger. She's trying not to laugh. In all our interactions, I've never seen her laugh or even smile.

"I'm what?" I push off from the counter, taking a step closer. Not enough to crowd her, but enough that she has to tilt her head back slightly to maintain eye contact. "Charming? Considerate? Devastatingly handsome?"

She rolls her eyes, but that ghost of amusement still lingers around her mouth. "Impossible," she mutters.

"I've been called worse." I reach past her for my bag, intentionally letting my arm brush against hers. Just the briefest contact, but I feel her tense, then relax slightly when I move back. "The offer stands, piccola. My shower door's always open for environmental conservation."

The glare she gives me should be lethal, but there's no real heat behind it. For just a moment, I glimpse the woman she might have been without whatever poison she has in her life—spirited, sharp, maybe even playful.

"I'll pass," she says dryly.

"Your loss." I back away, heading for the stairs.

I head upstairs, still picturing that almost-smile on her face. The hint of normalcy in an otherwise fucked-up situation feels like a small victory.

The bathroom in the bedroom is all cedar and stone, rustic luxury that I've never paid much attention to before. I strip down, tossing my clothes onto the counter and step into the shower, letting hot water pound against my shoulders and neck.

I press my palms against the cool tile, letting water cascade over my head.

What the fuck am I doing?

This was supposed to be simple. Woman beaten on Feretti territory. Message sent that we don't allow that shit. End of story. Just another day enforcing the rules that keep our organization functioning.

But it's more than that now.

I grab the soap, working it between my hands roughly. The scent of sandalwood fills the steam-thick air as I wash away the day's tension.

The truth slams into me. I didn't bring her here just to protect her. I brought her here because I wanted her close. Because something about her pulls at parts of me I thought were dead and buried.

It's fucking dangerous—to her, to me, to everyone involved .

I shut off the water with more force than necessary, grabbing a towel and drying off quickly. Droplets catch in the black ink of my tattoos, tracing paths through the symbols of violence and protection that mark my skin.

My hand stills over the sword and rose on my chest. The duality of my nature—violence and beauty, death and life. The reminder that I destroy as much as I protect.

Is that what she sees when she looks at me? The monster? Or does she sense something else?

I stand in the kitchen, staring at Enzo's retreating back as he disappears upstairs, his comment about me joining him in the shower still hanging in the air.

The sheer arrogance of the man is infuriating.

What, just because he saved me and brought me to this cabin, he thinks I'm going to fall at his feet like every other woman probably does?

My fingers curl into fists at my sides. I've spent my entire life being treated like property, and here he is making suggestive comments like I'm just another conquest. Sure, he's handsome—objectively speaking—with that perfectly sculpted face and those intense eyes that seem to see right through me.

But I've seen handsome men before. I've been paraded in front of them, offered up like a prize.

Arrogant .

Does he think I'm that easy to manipulate? That I'll be so grateful for his protection that I'll willingly climb into his bed?

The thought makes my stomach turn. I've been used too many times to count, treated like nothing more than a bargaining chip or a pretty face to seal my father's deals. The last thing I need is another man who sees me as something to possess.

I wait until I'm sure Enzo is occupied with his shower before making my way upstairs. He didn't tell me where my bedroom might be.

At the end of the hall, I find what must be a guest bedroom. Unlike the rest of the cabin with its personal touches this room feels neutral. The walls are a soft beige, the bedding a generic navy blue. No photos, no personal items, nothing to suggest it belongs to anyone in particular.

Perfect.

I close the door softly behind me and lean against it, finally letting out the breath I've been holding.

The bed looks inviting after the stress of the failed escape attempt and the tense car ride. I move toward it and sit on the edge, testing the mattress. It's firm but comfortable.

I lie back, sinking into the clean-smelling comforter, and stare at the ceiling.

The smooth, blank surface above me matches how I wish my mind could be—empty of all the complications and fears swirling through it.

Instead, my thoughts keep circling back to Enzo Feretti and his infuriating confidence.

Did he really think that suggestive comment would make me blush and simper like the women who probably throw themselves at him?

I close my eyes, trying to push away the anger building inside me.

I need to stay clearheaded. Getting emotional about Enzo's behavior won't help me figure a way out of this situation.

I need to focus on surviving, on finding a way to truly escape—not just from this cabin but from my father, from Cortez, from all of it.

I roll onto my side, tucking my hands under my cheek as exhaustion washes over me.

Despite the fear still thrumming beneath my skin, there's something about this room that feels safe.

Maybe it's the clean sheets or the softness of the mattress.

Whatever it is, I feel my muscles gradually unwinding, tension seeping from my body.

A soft click breaks the silence.

My eyes snap open as the bathroom door swings inward. Enzo steps into the room, his hair still damp from the shower, water droplets clinging to his broad shoulders.

My breath catches in my throat.

He's wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, the white fabric stark against his tanned skin.

I should look away, should scramble off the bed and demand he leave, but I can't seem to move.

My eyes are traitors, following the defined lines of his chest—the sculpted muscle dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail disappearing beneath the towel.

His body is a canvas of ink. On his chest, a sword pierces through a black rose, blood dripping onto prayer hands beneath. The word "VENDETTA" follows his jawline in bold lettering.

My gaze drifts to the droplets of water still working their way down the ridges of his abdomen, to the sharp V of muscle disappearing beneath that precariously low towel?—

"Notice anything appealing, piccola?"

Heat floods my cheeks as my eyes snap up to meet his. Amusement dances in those dark depths, along with something warmer, hungrier. He knows exactly what he's doing, standing there like some sculpture of a Greek god coming to life.

"I—" My voice fails me.

His lips curve into a slow, devastating smile. "Seems you've chosen the wrong room." He gestures around with one hand while the other keeps the towel in place. "This happens to be mine."

"Yours?" I choke out, bolt upright now, mortification replacing whatever spell had momentarily captured me. "But it's... it doesn't look..."

"Personal?" He shrugs, the movement rippling down the defined muscles of his chest. "I prefer to keep this room simple."

I scramble off the bed, acutely aware of how close he is, how little he's wearing, and how my body is reacting to both those facts.

"I'll just... I should..." I gesture vaguely toward the door, unable to complete a full sentence while my brain is short-circuiting from the proximity of all that bare skin.

"Your room is the second door on the left," he says casually, as if he's not standing there practically naked. "Blue walls, white bedspread. Can't miss it."

I nod stiffly as I am frozen toward the door, desperate to escape this mortifying situation but unable to make a single step.

"You know," Enzo adds, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in my chest, "I don't mind getting dressed in front of you if you want to stay."

The audacity steals my breath. I spin around, anger flaring hot enough to override my embarrassment.

"You—" Words fail me as I'm once again confronted with all that bare skin and ink. I force my eyes to stay locked on his face. "I'm leaving. Now."

"Suit yourself," he says with a shrug, that infuriating half-smile still playing at his lips.

I turn for the door again, my hand reaching for the knob when his fingers wrap around my wrist. Not painfully tight, but firm enough that I freeze instantly.

The touch sends electricity shooting up my arm—not fear exactly, but something equally alarming. I don't pull away immediately, which confuses me more than anything.

"Sienna." His voice has lost all trace of teasing. "If you want my help—if you want me to keep you safe from your father and whoever else is after you—you need to start talking. Tell me what the hell is going on."

I keep my back to him, not trusting myself to look at him again. His grip on my wrist is gentle enough that I could break free if I wanted to, but something holds me in place.

"Why do you care?" I whisper, the question escaping before I can stop it.

"You were hurt on my territory," he says, but there's something in his tone that suggests there's more to it than that.

"I wasn't under your protection then," I point out.

"You are now."

Those three simple words shouldn't affect me the way they do. I've heard promises of protection before—all of them empty, all of them coming with strings attached.

"And what do you want in return?" I ask, finally turning to face him. "Protection always costs something."

Anger flashes in his eyes—or offense. "Not with me."

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe someone in this world would help me without expecting something in return. But experience has taught me otherwise.

"I can't..." I swallow hard. "Not yet."

His eyes hold mine for a long moment before he releases my wrist. The absence of his touch leaves my skin feeling strangely cold.

"Get some rest," he says finally, stepping back. "But this conversation isn't over."

I nod, relieved and somehow disappointed at the same time. My hand finds the doorknob and I slip out of his room, the image of him standing there in nothing but a towel branded into my memory.

As I close the door behind me, I lean against it for a moment, my heart racing in my chest. I don't know what scares me more—the danger I'm running from, or the way Enzo Feretti makes me feel when he looks at me like that.