I’ve never seen him uncertain before, never witnessed this crack in his armor. My heart hammers against my ribs as he slowly lifts the patch, revealing the reality he’s kept hidden from me all this time.
The socket is sunken; the skin puckers around its edges where the prosthetic usually sits. Scar tissue creates a starburst pattern that stretches toward his temple, the flesh a paler shade than the surrounding skin.
It’s not grotesque—it’s intimate, raw, a secret written in damaged flesh.
“Happy now?” he asks, voice rough with defiance.
My breath catches, not from disgust but from the staggering intimacy of this moment. He’s standing before me, physically exposed in a way that feels more naked than if he’d stripped off every stitch of clothing.
Using my free hand, I grip his hair and pull until he’s so close I can kiss the damaged skin. “Yes,” I whisper. Then I kiss the hollow socket, the visible proof of his mortality.
This man, who commands rooms with his presence alone, he’s vulnerable too. Breakable. Human.
That realization is all it takes for my anger to morph into something darker, hungrier. The blade catches the dim light, glinting with deadly promise, as I raise it again.
“What are you doing, Little Thief?” Matteo asks, not backing away as I approach. If anything, he leans in, anticipation vibrating through his frame.
“Making things even,” I reply, the words dripping with intent. “You hurt me. Like, really fucking hurt me. It’s only fair I get to do the same to you.”
His remaining eye darkens to stormy gray, pupils dilating until there’s barely any color left. “Do it,” he challenges, voice dropping to a register that sends heat pooling between my legs.
I press the flat of the blade against his cheek, just below the empty socket, feeling him shudder beneath the cold metal. Then I turn the edge, dragging it down in a controlled motion that leaves a thin line of crimson in its wake.
The cut is shallow—I’m angry, not homicidal—but blood wells up immediately, a perfect bead that grows until it trails down his face like a red tear. He watches me with an intensity that makes my skin burn, like he’s memorizing every flicker of emotion across my face.
“Again,” he breathes. “Until you consider us even.” The command ignites something primal inside me.
I slash the knife across his chest, slicing through his shirt, leaving a thin red line that blooms through the white fabric. It’s not deep enough to cause real damage, just enough to mark him, to make him feel my pain and my desire in equal measure.
His hand shoots out, wrapping around my wrist in an iron grip. For a moment we’re frozen, knife between us, blood soaking into his shirt, both of us breathing hard.
“Is this what you want?” he asks, fingers tightening until I can feel my pulse throbbing against his grip. “To mark me?”
“Yes.” The confession burns my throat. “I want to make you remember.”
His thumb presses into the tender flesh of my inner wrist. “Remember what?”
“That I see you. All of you. And I’m still fucking here,” I whisper, trying to twist free
His expression changes; hunger replaces caution. “Say it again.” His voice is barely audible, a rasp of need. “Say you see me.”
“I see you, Matteo Russo.” The words fall from my lips like a curse, like a prayer. “Scars, empty socket, monster, and man. I fucking see you.”
He releases my wrist so suddenly I stumble back, but before I can recover, he’s on me. His mouth crashes against mine, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. I taste his blood. It’s metallic and sweet on my tongue.
The knife clatters to the floor as my hands fist in his hair, yanking hard enough to hurt. He groans into my mouth; the sound vibrates through me like an electric current.
His hands tear at my clothes; getting rid of the jacket before ripping my shorts down my legs with such force I hear the fabric tear.
“Fuck me,” I gasp against his mouth, nails scoring down his back, leaving red welts I can feel even through his shirt. “Now. Hard. Make me yours.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, voice wrecked with desire. His hand slides between my legs, finding me wet already. “Tell me what you want, Little Thief.”
“I want you to fuck me like you love me,” I growl, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood. “Like you want to keep me and already know I’m yours.”
He spins me around, bending me over the nearest table, my cheek pressed against the cool surface. I hear his belt unbuckle, his zipper lower, and then he’s there, thick and hard against my entrance.
He enters me with one brutal thrust that steals the breath from my lungs and makes my vision blur. The stretch burns, my body struggling to accommodate his size with so little preparation.
