But his violence has never been pointed at me. Not once. He touches me like I'm something worth being careful with.
Viktor made me smaller. Every day, a little more. Matteo hands me a gun and teaches me to fight back.
That's the difference.
Different fear, I remind myself.Better fear.
Or maybe not fear at all. Maybe it's just the terrifying realization that I trust him. That somewhere along the way, without meaning to, I started believing he won't hurt me.
And I have no idea what to do with that.
The water cools eventually. I haul myself out, dry off, and pull on my favorite sweats. For a moment I consider the satin robe that hugs my curves in all the right places.
But no. I don’t want this thing between us to be just about sex. There’s chemistry, obviously. Enough to set my skin on fire every time he looks at me a certain way. But there’s something else building underneath. Something quieter. Deeper.
I want to see where it goes.
I braid my wet hair to the side and leave the bedroom, following the rhythmic thud of impact coming from somewhere in the back of the house.
His gym.
The door is ajar. I stop in the doorway, watching.
Matteo is destroying a heavy bag.
There’s no other word for it. He’s not training. He’s not working out. He’s unleashing something, fists slamming into leather with a force that makes the chain rattle and groan, his body coiled and explosive, muscles rippling under sweat-slicked skin.
He’s shirtless. Just basketball shorts slung low on his hips. And even though I’ve seen him naked, there’s something different about watching him like this. Unguarded. Unaware.
Violent.
This is what he does for a living. Hurts people. Breaks them. Ends them, when necessary. I’ve known that intellectually since the day we met, but seeing it—the controlled brutality, the deadly precision—makes something twist in my gut.
Then he pivots to reset his stance, and I see his back.
The breath leaves my body.
Scars. Dozens of them. Small, round, scattered across the broad expanse of muscle and skin. The overhead light throws them into sharp relief; pale and puckered, clustered between his shoulder blades, trailing down toward his ribs.
I just now realize I’ve never seen him without a shirt. Not once. In bed it’s always been dark, and I was too lost in him to take inventory. He sleeps in a shirt—I thought he just ran cold.
He was hiding this.
I know what those are. Cigarette burns. Dozens of them.
Someone did this to Matteo.
My hand flies to my mouth.
What the fuck?
I take a step back, shoulder hitting the doorframe with a soft thud, and?—
He spins.
Our eyes meet.
The vulnerability on his face lasts exactly one second. Shame. Exposure. The raw shock of being seen.
