Page 39 of Ruthless Sin
I get out of the SUV, close the door, and walk into the house.
9
MILA
My back is against the door in the dark. The household went quiet hours ago.
Sofia’s paper on top of the empty cup beside me.
Insieme. Together.
My thighs have been pressed together a long time and they will not loosen.
I am thinking about the skin above his wrist. The two inches the sleeve rides up when he shifts. The gearshift warm under my fingers where his hand had been the whole drive.
I should not be thinking about it.
I am wet.
I stand.
The folding knife stays in the dress pocket. The chain stays at my throat. I do not change.
My door opens an inch. The hallway is empty.
Nonna keeps the bulbs honey-low at night, enough to walk by. Bare feet on wood. The floors do not creak in this house. I have learned where every board sits.
I pass Sofia’s door. Dark. His hallway is shorter than I remember.
His door is open an inch. Moonlight cuts a strip along the gap and a lamp burns inside.
My palm flat against the wood. I don’t push.
Protocol. Scope the exits. Map the room. Count the windows. You know this.
I push the protocol aside.
The door opens without sound.
He is on the bed.
He is in black pajama pants slung low. His chest is bare. I can see the dark line of hair down his stomach, a scar across his ribs, and another at his collarbone. His feet are bare. The watch is off on the nightstand. The Akhmatova lies face-down on the bed by his hip.
The lamp throws low warm light down the length of him.
His head turns when I come through the door.
His eyes find me. For one breath he does not move. His mouth opens half an inch.
“Cara.” Rough. Stunned. “You’re here.”
His jaw tightens, the muscle at the corner working once. His hands curl white in the sheets and then flatten.
He stays where he is. The sheet at his waist. He does not reach for a shirt.
His eyes move down me from my bare feet to the hem of my dress to the chain at my throat to my mouth. He does not hide the looking.
My hands at my sides have curled into fists.
