Page 41 of The Savage

The sound of the patting and his silky, far too shadowy voice is obscene in the quiet.

I blink when his meaning lands. He wants me to… to… ‘No. Absolutely not.’

‘I’m getting tired of asking.’ The words are a rumble, half coaxing, half command. And the curved perfection of his mouth as he speaks… Sweet heaven deliver me but why can’t I look away from it? ‘Come on. You look like you’re about to fall off that chair.’

‘I can’t – I will not – sleep in the same bed as a man.’ My voice climbs, mortified, and I lower it quickly. ‘It’s… wrong.’

He laughs, coarse and deep and hot. ‘Says who?’ he asks again, and I hate that the echo lands in my bones. When I don’t answer, he exhales through his nose. ‘Fine. Chair it is. But you’re not leaving.’

My heart thuds. ‘You can’t keep me,’ I challenge. Then I suck in a breath. ‘What I mean is, I have a perfectly adequate room here.’

‘I can keep you and I will.’ His eyes flick to the door, then back to me. ‘Here’s the deal. Go lock the door. Bring me the key.’

My mouth opens. ‘What?’

‘If you bring me the key, it means you don’t plan to run. It means you trust I’m not going to… do anything you don’t want.’ His gaze holds mine steadily and for once, there’s no mocking in it. ‘And it means I sleep without worrying some idiot in a lab coat will wander in and sedate me because my heart does cartwheels when you breathe.’

My cheeks burn. ‘That isn’t true.’

‘It is. Very much.’ He nods at the lock. ‘Go on. Prove you’re not a flight risk.’

His demand sits uneasily in me. ‘If I lock the door, the staff⁠—’

‘Won’t be a problem.’ His mouth hardens. ‘They know better than to disturb us. Come. Here.’

Everything in me tenses.

I recall when he appeared before me in the balaclava. I picture the soldiers, the chopper, the black hood. I picture the Madre Superiora’s pinned mouth when she’s displeased, the set of her shoulders when she says obedience is the shortest road to peace. I can almost hear her now: Do not place yourself in occasions of sin.

I look at the bed. At him. At the scandal inherent in the idea of staying.

His voice intrudes, gentler than I expect. ‘If you’d rather go, try the handle. See what happens.’

I glance at the door and don’t move. I think of being bundled through harsh corridors, of the black hood and the bite of plastic restraints.

I think of the church that haunts my dreams and the shadow who stands just out of sight. I think of the name he said like a vow.

Giada.

My stomach swoops.

‘I’m not running,’ I say at last. For good or ill, there are doors to be mentally unlocked within this chaos. And I… I feel the essential need to be here. To gain answers I’ve been long denied.

He watches me with that rabid intensity as I stand, cross the room, and turn the key. The lock engages with a clean, mechanical click. I hold the heavy key for a second longer than necessary, feeling its weight imprint on my palm, then walk back and set it on the tray within his reach.

‘There.’ My voice comes out steadier than I feel. ‘But I’ll remain in the chair.’

His eyes dip to the key, then to me. Then reaches over and snags it within his large hand. ‘Deal.’

I sink onto the chair and fold my hands tightly in my lap to stop them fidgeting. He adjusts his pillow with a hiss, angles his body towards mine and settles back.

The monitors obediently flatten towards calm. I try not to be furious with the machine for telling truths I’d rather ignore.

He watches me like a man who’s found water in a desert and can’t quite trust it not to be a mirage. The scrutiny should make me feel small. It doesn’t. It makes me feel… seen. As if my skin is a book he once read and loved and now he’s reacquainting himself with his favourite chapters.

‘Tell me about your day,’ he says.

‘What?’