Piper hovers beside me, her arm supporting more of my weight than I want to admit. My bare legs wobble beneath me, goosebumps rising on my skin despite the June warmth filtering through distant windows.
“Slow down,” Piper whispers, tightening her grip on my waist as I stumble. “You’re going to fall.”
“I don’t care.” The words come out harsher than intended, but they’re honest. I’d crawl if I had to.
We round a corner, and the hallway opens into a massive kitchen. Sunlight floods through floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off stainless steel appliances that look like they’ve never been used.
The granite island in the center gleams with not-quite-reflected light, surrounded by four men whose quiet conversation stops abruptly as we appear. The kitchen itself is a study in contradictions.
Professional-grade everything that appears untouched beside scattered coffee cups and abandoned whiskey glasses. A chef’s knife block sits next to what is very obviously a handgun, both treated with equal casualness.
Lorenzo stands nearest to us, his fingers curled around a steaming mug, his expression hardening when he sees me. Dick. Beside him, a man leans against the counter, arms crossed, face unreadable. Another sits on a stool, already looking amused at whatever’s about to unfold.
And then there’s Matteo.
He stands with his back to the sink, shirtless, dark ink sprawling across his torso. A white bandage wraps around his left bicep, stark against his tattooed skin. The eyepatch is back, the strap disappearing into his disheveled hair.
His jaw is darkened with stubble, his remaining eye bloodshot from what I’d guess is no sleep. He looks exhausted. Dangerous. Perfect.
“Raven—” Piper starts, but I’ve already torn myself from her grip.
Pain explodes through every nerve ending as I launch myself across the kitchen. My vision blurs at the edges, but I don’t slow down. I don’t falter.
Matteo straightens, his eye widening a fraction before I collide with him. My legs wrap around his waist, my arms around his neck as I crush my mouth against his. The impact sends fresh waves of agony radiating from my injuries, but I couldn’t care less.
He’s alive. He’s here. He’s mine. All fuckingmine.
His hands instinctively grip my thighs, holding me steady as he returns the kiss with equal ferocity. I moan at the familiar taste of coffee and whiskey and Matteo. His tongue claims my mouth without hesitation, without the slightest acknowledgment that we have an audience.
There’s a choked sound from someone—probably Piper—and a low whistle that must be from one of the cousins since Lorenzo would never whistle at me. It all fades into the background noise.
Matteo is alive, solid and warm against me, his heart hammering against my chest where our bodies press together.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, he doesn’t set me down. Instead, he moves to the counter and places me on it, positioning himself between my spread legs. His hands slide up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones.
“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough with emotion I’m not sure he even recognizes.
“You got shot,” I counter, my hands moving to his bandaged arm. The white gauze is pristine—no blood seeping through. But the thought of how close the bullet came makes my stomach twist.
“Barely.” His lips quirk up at one corner, that dangerous half-smile I’ve come to crave. “It’s just a scratch.”
“I don’t care if it’s a fucking paper cut.” I grab his face between my hands, fingers digging into his jawline hard enough to leave marks. “If you ever die on me, I’ll bring you back to life just so I can kill you myself. Understand?”
A startled laugh bursts from his throat. “Is that your way of saying you missed me, Little Thief?”
“It’s my way of saying you don’t get to leave me.” My voice breaks embarrassingly, and I’m suddenly, acutely aware of our audience. But I don’t look away from Matteo. “Not ever. You claimed me, remember? So now you’re stuck with me.”
His expression shifts into something almost tender, so at odds with the violence that usually lives in his features that it steals my breath. “Not planning on it,” he murmurs, leaning in to press his forehead against mine.
“Jesus Christ,” someone mutters from somewhere behind Matteo. “Get a room.”
“We’re in my apartment,” Matteo growls without turning around. “Every room is my fucking room.”
Is it any wonder I love him with epic comebacks like that?
Another one laughs loudly in the otherwise quiet kitchen. “At least we now know why he wouldn’t leave her bedside for twenty-four fucking hours. I’ve never seen you so whipped, cousin.”
“Keep talking,” Matteo replies, still looking only at me, “and I’ll show you whipped in ways that’ll give you nightmares.”
