Page 70 of The Savage

‘Renzo. This morning I was… I was… You can’t expect me to simply turn myself inside out, Signore. And even if I wanted to, this… this is obscene,’ I breathe.

Renzo’s lips twitch with displeasure. ‘You’ll need clothes, baby. And I love that you used my name. I look forward to hearing more of it.’

I shiver at the heat in his voice. ‘I have clothes,’ I snap, clutching at my habit. ‘God provides.’

‘Yeah?’ His gaze drags over me, slow, sinful. ‘When He sends Dior and silk to your doorstep, you might want to say thank you.’

I stiffen. ‘I will not wear⁠—’

‘You will,’ he interrupts, firmly but not unkindly. ‘When you’re ready. No one’s forcing you, Benedetta.’

He says the name like it’s a private joke he’ll stop telling when I remember who I am.

‘But fair enough if you need time to acclimatise. We all do, it seems,’ he adds under his breath.

Then he leaves me standing in that room full of temptation, the click of his crutch on the marble a steady heartbeat until it fades away.

* * *

I spend the next few days trying to reconcile the contradictions of my new existence.

Every morning, sunlight floods the room through tall windows. The sea air curls into my hair and the sound of gulls replaces the convent bells.

The doctor visits with quiet efficiency, checking vitals, asking questions, noting how often I drift when I speak.

Renzo comes and goes like weather, sometimes silent and brooding, sometimes all fire and motion. He insists on daily physiotherapy, curses through every step, and yet somehow still manages to look like a man made of control.

I try not to stare when he goes through his motions, shirt damp with sweat, jaw tight with pain.

I fail more often than I admit.

The wardrobe remains untouched until the third day, when a housekeeper brings in laundry and leaves a soft linen dress on my bed. It’s white, simple and long enough to cover almost everything.

‘For the heat,’ she says kindly. ‘The Signore worries.’

I touch the fabric like it might burn me. It smells faintly of citrus and sun.

I wear it the next morning, convincing myself it’s practical. I tell myself I’m not surrendering. Just adapting.

Renzo notices. Of course he does.

He’s standing on the terrace, overlooking the sea, when I step out. His gaze slides over me, slowly and deliberately, filled with enough heat to power a small city. And as I watch, unable to tear my gaze away, something darkens in his eyes.

‘You’re shedding your skin,’ he murmurs.

‘I’m dressing for the weather. Apparently you worry.’

‘Sure, I do,’ he says, smirking, but there’s something softer under the tease, something like reverence. ‘About a lot of things.’

I turn away, pretending to watch the horizon, but my heart thunders like the surf below.

Over the next three days, more layers fall away – the heavy stockings, the veil, the starched undershirts. Piece by piece, I begin to resemble the woman in the mirror more than the nun in the chapel.

Yet one thing remains: the wimple. I can’t let it go. It’s the last thread between who I was and what I fear becoming.

He never mentions it. Not directly. But I catch him watching sometimes – the way his eyes linger on that simple strip of fabric as if it’s both a barrier and a promise.

One evening, I find him in the palazzo’s courtyard.