Page 75 of The Savage

‘For me,’ I echo, suspicious. ‘What?’

He leans in, breath grazing my cheek like a promise. ‘All your favourites.’

‘I don’t know what my favourites are,’ I say, and the admission makes my throat ache.

His smile gentles. ‘I do,’ he murmurs. ‘Or I will by the time the plates arrive.’

I look away so he won’t see the way my eyes burn. ‘This is manipulation.’

‘This is courtship,’ he corrects, amused. ‘Old-fashioned, I know. Blame the palazzo. The frescoes. The breeze if you want.’

‘And if I say no?’

He shrugs. ‘Then we eat in silence and I watch you try not to smile. Either way, we don’t go to war for one evening.’

‘And after?’ I ask, because I have to, because I need to know where the cliff is.

His eyes darken. ‘After,’ he says, ‘we stop pretending we’re not on the edge. You stop pretending your pussy doesn’t get wet every time our skin touches.’

My pulse skitters.

He catches my wrist again – firm within the warm circle of fingers that says here, stay – and then releases me like he trusts I will.

‘Go change,’ he says, suddenly light. ‘Pray while you pick a dress that makes you feel like the sun owes you money.’

‘I’m not⁠—’

‘—turning up in a habit to my first real dinner with you?’ he finishes. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘I could,’ I threaten, absurdly, just to watch him bristle. ‘Just to spite you.’

He groans, tips his head back, stares at the ceiling like he’s appealing to a very patient god. ‘You’re killing me, angel.’

‘Good,’ I say, trying not to smile and failing.

‘Seven, sharp, tonight,’ he says, already reaching for his phone, face shifting into the mask he wears when he commands the world. ‘On the terrace.’

‘And if I don’t show?’

He shoots me a look that could melt steel. ‘You’ll show. And I think you should know, I find the wimple a huge turn on. So wear it, or don’t. I’m fired up either way.’

Arrogant. Terrible. Right.

I stand, smoothing my skirt with hands that won’t stop shaking, and retreat to the doorway. I mean to make a clean exit. I stop and look back because I can’t help myself.

He’s watching me already, eyes burning, mouth soft.

‘Renzo,’ I say, voice embarrassingly small.

Eyes glinting hard catch mine again. ‘Hmm?’

‘If I… if I pray before dinner⁠—’

‘Pray during,’ he says, smiling like a sin. ‘I’ll listen, maybe toss in a few of my own. Who knows, He might be in a listening mood.’

I leave before the relief in my chest gives me away.

Behind me, I hear him on the phone – orders murmured, names I don’t recognise, a rhythm that says he’s building a night out of food and light and a ceasefire.