“I keep h-hearing the dripping,” I confess, face pressed against his shoulder. “All the time. Even when there’s nothing dripping. It’s like… like I’m still there. Like part of me never left that room.”
“You’re here,” Matteo says, his lips brushing my temple. “You’re with me. You’re safe.”
“Am I?” The question slips out before I can stop it, raw with the doubt that’s been plaguing me since we got back. “What if I’m never safe again? What if I can’t stop being afraid?”
Matteo shifts, taking my face in both his hands. His mismatched gaze—one gray eye and one covered by the ever-present eyepatch—holds mine with an intensity that makes everything else fade away.
“Then you’re afraid,” he says simply. “And I’m still here. Fear doesn’t make you weak, Raven. It makes you human.”
Coming from anyone else, the words would sound like empty platitudes. But from Matteo—a man who’s faced his own demons, who carries the scars of his past both visible and hidden—they carry the weight of truth.
“I don’t want to be afraid,” I whisper.
“I know.” His thumbs brush away tears I didn’t even realize were still falling. “But you survived, Little Thief. You fought. You slayed the monster. The rest will come with time.”
He pulls me close again, and I let myself sink into his warmth. As I look toward the bathroom, I notice the water making its way in here.
“Matteo—” I begin, but he shushes me.
“I don’t care,” he simply says. “Nothing but you matters.”
My breathing gradually steadies against Matteo’s chest. “Don’t let go,” I murmur against his skin, the closest I can come right now to explaining what I need.
“I won’t,” he promises.
Chapter 44
Raven
The living room air feels cool against my still-damp skin as Matteo carries me to the couch, his arms solid and sure beneath me. My body feels weightless in his grip, hollow and too heavy all at once—the aftermath of panic leaving me emptied out and refilled with exhaustion.
He lowers me onto the cushions with the same precision he uses to set explosives, like I’m something that could detonate if handled wrong. Maybe I am.
“Stay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead before straightening up. I nod, not trusting my voice yet. My throat feels raw from crying, from screaming at ghosts only I can see.
He walks back into the bedroom, and I listen to the soft pad of his bare feet against the hardwood. Is he checking thebathroom? Cleaning up the mess I made? Calling a plumber at stupid o’clock in the morning?
I curl my toes against the cool leather of the couch, trying to anchor myself in physical sensation rather than spinning into another spiral.
I’m so tired of being afraid. So tired of letting Finn win from beyond the grave. Even saying his name in my head feels dangerous, like summoning a demon. I pull the towel tighter around me, suddenly aware of how exposed I am, how vulnerable.
Not just physically—though that too—but emotionally. Matteo has seen me at my absolute worst now. Broken. Terrified. Unhinged.
And he didn’t run. Didn’t look at me with pity or disappointment. Just held me through it, solid as the concrete walls of his penthouse.
Minutes stretch before I hear his footsteps returning. I look up to find him watching me from the edge of the room, his expression unreadable in the dim dawn light.
A towel sits low on his hips, water still trailing down the hard planes of his chest, catching in the dark ink of his tattoos. It’s entirely unfair how delicious he looks without even trying. Even while bruised from his fight with Finn.
I squint as I notice his hand is closed around something I can’t quite make out. “What’s that?” I ask, my voice a sandpaper whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he crosses to me with that predatory grace that never fails to make my breath catch. When he reaches the couch, he doesn’t sit beside me as I expect. He sinks to the floor between my legs, the position so deliberate it feels like déjà vu.
“Give me your foot,” he says, and the words strike a chord of memory so sharp it almost hurts.
I extend my right leg tentatively, and he cradles my ankle in one large hand. His palm is warm against my still-damp skin, fingers encircling the delicate bones with casual possession. Only then does he open his other hand to reveal what he’s been holding.
The pink marker. My pink permanent marker, with the telltale bite marks on the cap. The same marker he used weeks ago in my apartment.
