His jaw tightens. “Maybe I just like my privacy,” he snaps.
“Privacy?” I laugh, the sound bitter and sharp enough to cut. “You broke into my apartment. You blackmailed me. You fucked me in ways I’ve never been fucked before. But God forbid I see anything you don’t want me to.”
Something flashes across his face—frustration, maybe even hurt—but I’m too far gone to care. The pieces are falling together in my head, each one hitting like a hammer blow.
“Are you afraid I can’t handle it?” My voice rises, cracking around the edges. “That I’m so fucking shallow I’d run screaming from your empty socket? Is that what you think of me?”
I know I said something similar when we had breakfast at the diner, but I want to know if that’s how he sees me. Because if it is… then we’re done.
Matteo’s hand wraps around my wrist, not to push the knife away but to hold it in place. “No,” he says firmly. “That was never it.”
“Then what?” I demand, pressing closer, our bodies a breath apart. “Why keep this from me, of all things? You say you love me, but you can’t even show me who you really are?”
“It wasn’t about you—”
The denial is all it takes to ignite the rage that’s been building inside me. My free hand flies up, connecting with his cheek in a slap that cracks through the empty space. Matteo’s head snaps back with the force of the blow, but his grip on my knife hand doesn’t loosen.
“Fuck you!” I scream, tears burning behind my eyes that I refuse to let fall. “Don’t you dare tell me it wasn’t about me. You don’t get to decide what parts of yourself I’m allowed to see!”
When he looks at me again, his eye is dark with something that isn’t quite anger—something hotter, more dangerous.
“You think you want all of me, Little Thief?” he asks, voice dropping to a register that sends shivers across my skin. “You’retoo scared to admit how you feel about me. But you think you can demand all of me. Fine. Then take it. Takeallof it. All. Of. Me.”
“Don’t patronize me,” I hiss, body trembling so violently I can barely stand. “I’m not some fragile little doll you need to protect from the truth. I’m not Piper, hiding her face when things get bloody. I’m not scared of your darkness—I’m pissed that you think I am.”
He laughs, the sound sharp and without humor. “You think that’s why I won’t let you see? To protect your delicate sensibilities?”
“What else am I supposed to think?” I yank my wrist free from his grip, taking a step back before I do something truly stupid, like slit his throat. Or kiss him. “First, you kept this huge thing from me. And now you won’t even let me see. After everything—”
“After what, exactly?” he counters, stepping forward to eliminate the space I created. “After I blackmailed you? After I used you as a spy? After I sent you to meet Tony without warning? Which part of our fucked-up arrangement led you to believe I owed you anything?”
His words hit their mark with brutal precision, each one driving deeper than the last. “Arrangement?” I repeat, the word tasting like ash. “Is that what this is to you? An arrangement?”
“You tell me, Little Thief. One minute you’re dancing half-naked for a room full of strangers, the next you’re holding a knife to my throat demanding honesty. What exactly do you want from me?”
My pink hair whips around my face as I pace, unable to stand still with the storm raging inside me. “I want to stop feeling like I’m the only one exposed in this… this whatever it is. You said you love me, but you don’t trust me enough to show me who you really are. Flaws and all.”
“Trust?” He laughs again, harder this time. “You’ve been avoiding me for days. Lying about being sick. Planning this little performance with my own family behind my back. And you want to lecture me about trust?”
“At least I’m honest about my dishonesty,” I fire back, knowing how ridiculous it sounds even as I say it. “I don’t pretend to be something I’m not.”
“No?” His voice drops, dangerous and soft. “Then what’s with the pink hair, Raven? Or better yet, why do you go by Raven instead of Lena? What’s with the new persona? Tell me you’re not running from something.”
The observation lands like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath. He’s right, and we both know it. I’m changing myself to avoid feeling the pain, creating a new Raven who doesn’t get hurt by his manipulations.
I step closer, close enough that his breath stirs the pink strands framing my face. The knife is still in my hand, but I’ve lowered it to my side, the threat implicit rather than immediate.
“Take it off,” I demand again, voice dropping to a whisper.
“No,” he growls.
My eyes lock with his, challenging him. “Take it off. Show me.”
The air between us crackles with tension, thick enough to slice with the blade still clutched in my hand. His expression hardens into something unreadable, a mask I want to tear away with my teeth.
“Show me who you really are,” I repeat, softer but no less insistent. “Or was all that talk about honesty just another game?”
The Leone Room holds its breath around us, empty and expectant as Matteo’s hand rises to his face. His fingers hesitate at the edge of the eyepatch, a momentary flash of something like vulnerability crossing his features before disappearing beneath resolve.
