Page 77 of The Savage

When he finally speaks, it’s casual. ‘You like it.’

‘I’m human,’ I say primly.

‘I know.’ He sips his wine. ‘I’m counting on it.’

I glance up sharply. ‘Why do you talk like that?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like life is a game you’re constantly fighting to win.’

He leans back, smile fading into something quieter. ‘Because when you have two older brothers who conquer the world before you’re out of long socks, you have to claw and fight to carve out your own world.’

The confession knocks me off balance. I study him, trying to see the man beyond the myth. ‘And have you?’

He meets my gaze. ‘Not in every way that counts, but when I fight, I fight to win. Always.’

The air between us shifts, heavier and charged. I want to say something, anything, to break it, but instead I find myself blurting, ‘Everything you say is so… smooth. So…’

‘Sexy?’ His eyes glint.

‘Your word, not mine. Mine was going to be “practised”. Does that work with… women?’ I say, then bite my tongue in hot reproach.

He lifts an eyebrow, wicked and patient. ‘Not practised. Plain-speaking. And unsurprisingly? Yes.’

My cheeks blaze. ‘How many?’ Sweet heaven, what are you doing?

His grin returns, slow and predatory. ‘Enough to know the difference between want and need. Fake and real.’

I can’t look at him, but I can feel him smiling, and that makes it worse. ‘That’s indecent.’

‘It’s honest. And healthy.’ He leans forward, elbows on the table. ‘And you asked.’

I toy with my fork. ‘Do you remember them?’

‘Most,’ he says, then pauses, eyes catching mine. ‘But none of them were you.’

My breath stalls. He says it like a vow. Like a truth he can’t take back.

The world narrows to the space between us. The candles flicker, the sea hushes, the air smells of salt and heat and promise.

There’s something I want to ask – something unthinkable and dangerous – but the words stick in my throat. He knows. Of course he does. He leans closer, his voice low enough to crawl under my skin.

‘Ask me, cara, if you dare.’

I can’t. I won’t. My heart slams so hard I think it’ll leave bruises on my ribs.

He chuckles softly, reading my silence. ‘Didn’t think so.’

‘Stop teasing me,’ I whisper.

‘Not teasing,’ he murmurs. ‘Testing.’

I don’t know what that means, but I don’t ask. The food disappears. The wine disappears. The night deepens into something alive and thick with unspoken things. He tells me stories, little and meaningful but impersonal ones, unguarded.

His first race.

His brother’s racing ambition that birthed his own. The way he and his twin swapped places before a sponsorship interview and fooled everyone.