Silence falls like a blade.
Rachel smirks. Emma blinks.
And Beatrice—God help me—looks like she’s about to murder me.
“You don’t answer for me,” she snaps. “A party sounds?—”
“You go with them,” I say evenly, “and I follow. With my security. All twenty of them. If that’s how you want your night to go, be my guest. Otherwise, you stay. We have things to discuss.”
The air between us tightens, electric, charged with something that pulls and burns at the same time.
“After everything that happened, Beatrice,” I say quietly, “I think I’m owed a conversation.”
Her friends exchange a glance.
“It’s okay, Bea,” Rachel says gently. “We’ll see you tomorrow. Em and I need to head back anyway; we probably won’t end up making it to the party.”
Beatrice wants to argue, but Rachel leans down and kisses her cheek. Emma waves goodbye, and just like that, they’re gone—leaving the two of us alone at the table, facing each other like opponents in a game neither of us ever agreed to play.
“Tell me what happened at my place, bella.”
She shakes her head and rises from her seat. “I already told you—what happened that night was a mistake. We can’t let it happen again. It’s better if we stay apart.”
She steps away from the table—but my hand moves faster, curling around her wrist, stopping her mid-stride.
I stand, letting my full height overshadow her, letting the truth simmer between us.
For a moment, I wrestle with myself—with the urge to pull her closer, with the instinct to drag the truth out of her, with the knowledge that if I touch her for even a second longer, I won’t be able to let go.
I should let her go. It would be the sane thing, the strategic thing, the right thing.
But the moment she tries to pull away, my hand tightens—instinct, hunger, inevitability all snapping into place at once.
“You feel this too, Beatrice,” I murmur, stepping closer until our bodies are separated by nothing but intention. “Don’t pretend you don’t. Every time I’m near you, your body answers me.”
I dip my head to her neck, letting her lavender scent draw a slow, deliberate breath out of me.
Her inhale catches—quiet, sharp, unmistakable. It spears straight through my control.
I shouldn’t touch her, not here, not with half the bar watching us out of the corner of their eyes. But the urge is aliving thing in my blood, too loud to ignore. I press my lips to the warm column of her throat, just barely, just enough to taste skin and danger.
Her hand comes to my chest—not to push me away, but to steady herself—and the sound she makes is not a warning. Not even close. She tips her head a fraction to the side, offering more. Inviting more.
I want to take it. Claim her. Mark her so thoroughly no one else will dare come close.
But I force myself to step back, dragging restraint up from places in me that haven’t seen daylight in years.
My hand slides from her wrist to her hand, threading our fingers together like it’s the most natural thing I’ve ever done. My thumb strokes slow circles over her skin, a touch meant to soothe and claim all at once.
“This is wrong, Matteo,” she whispers.
I tilt her chin up with a single finger. “Then tell me why my mouth on you felt right. Tell me why that kiss carved itself into my bones.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out—not when the truth sits blazing in her eyes, raw and hungry and impossible to hide.
“For once,” I say softly, “stop thinking. Just feel, bella.”
She bites her lip—a tiny movement, but it snaps something inside me clean in half.
