Matteo pauses, turning those storm-cloud eyes on me. For a beat, I catch a faint glassy reflection in one—something off, too still, too smooth—but it’s gone before I can place it.
“Just a lighter?” His voice drops to an icy whisper. “Thatwasmy father’s lighter. It’s the only thing I have left of him.”
Guilt sucker-punches me in the stomach. I didn’t know. How could I have known it was an… heirloom? Yeah, the justification feels hollow even to me.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” I say, softening my tone slightly. “But that doesn’t give you the right to break in here and tear apart my home.”
“The right?” He laughs, the sound sharp enough to cut. “You’re talking to me about rights after you stole from me?”
He heads for the kitchen and tears through it like a controlled burn—cupboards gutted, bags ripped, white dust lifting and hanging between us like smoke after a match strike.
I watch helplessly as he moves through my space like an invading army, claiming territory. By the time there’s only one room left, I’m shaking like a leaf in a storm.
Matteo’s head tilts to the side, a smirk pulling at his lips. “One to go,” he mumbles, already moving.
Before I can move to block him, he brushes past me, his shoulder connecting with mine just firmly enough to knock me off balance. I stumble, catching myself against the wall as he strides purposefully toward my bedroom.
“Stay out of there,” I call after him, but he’s already crossing the threshold.
I follow, knowing it’s useless to try to stop him but unwilling to let him invade my most private space unchallenged. When I enter the bedroom, he’s already pulling open my dresser drawers, sifting through folded clothes.
“Find anything interesting?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe with forced casualness. “Any deep, dark secrets hidden in my underwear drawer?”
“Not yet,” he replies, not even glancing up as he rifles through my belongings.
As he kneels to check under my bed, my heart rate spikes. The shoebox with my collection is hidden just inches from his searching hands.
“Nothing under here,” he announces, standing up and turning toward my closet.
I exhale silently, relief washing over me. That is until I notice the slight curve of his lips. He saw it. He’s just toying with me now, like a cat with a cornered mouse.
My heart lodges somewhere in my throat as Matteo feigns interest in my closet, pawing through hangers with deliberate slowness. He’s playing with me. I know it, and he knows that I know it.
The shoebox under my bed might as well be pulsing with neon light, announcing its presence to the room. I should have hidden it better. In the ceiling, in a wall, anywhere but under my bed. Now it’s too late.
“Nice clothes,” he comments casually, running his fingers along the sleeve of my favorite silk blouse. “Expensive taste for someone who needs to steal.”
“I don’tneedto steal,” I snap. “And I told you, I don’t have your—”
He spins suddenly, moving with the liquid grace of a predator. “Enough lies.” His voice drops to that dangerous whisper that makes my skin prickle. “We both know what’s under the bed, Raven.”
My stomach lurches as he crosses the room and drops to one knee beside my bed. He reaches underneath and drags out the plain black cardboard box with a red lid, deceptively ordinary for what it contains.
“Please,” I whisper before I can stop myself. “Don’t.”
He looks up through lashes dark with sin and eyes gleaming with malice. “Too late for please,” he scoffs. “The time for talking was in your employer’s office yesterday afternoon. But you chose to run. Now, let’s see what you’re hoarding.”
I stand frozen, unable to move as he lifts the lid with exaggerated care. My collection lies exposed—a dozen small items, each representing a memory, a piece I took for myself.
Cufflinks. A watch, tie clips, and even a monogrammed handkerchief, the threading glinting when the light hits at the right angle. There’s also a silver money clip and a class ring. Small, shiny things that men never missed until days later, if at all.
And there, nestled among them like the most precious jewel, is Matteo’s lighter.
“Well, well,” he chuckles, delighted and dark. “What have we here?”
He lifts each item one by one, examining them before setting them aside on my duvet. He studies the silver pocket watch that belonged to a visiting professor from Oxford. What a pompous ass that Brit was. But damn, his tongue was…
“Quite the collection, Little Thief,” he observes, not looking at me.
