That makes no sense. None of this does.
The memory hits all at once: hallway, hand over my mouth, the smell, panic, and then darkness. That’s all I remember.
I swing my legs off the bed, pulse roaring in my ears, and scan the room for exits. It’s big. Too big. Tastefully furnished in a way that screams money without needing to prove it.
This is not my apartment. Panic sets in.
Hegot to me.
The thought is sharp and immediate, slicing through everything else. I feel it settle into my bones with horrible certainty. I don’t scream. I don’t freeze. I move.
My gaze lands on the desk near the window. Pens. Heavy ones. Metal.
Good enough.
I grab one and curl my fingers around it the way I once learned you’re supposed to hold a knife, point down, grip tight, aim for soft tissue. My hands are steady. My mouth is dry.
The door opens.
I spin, pen raised, ready to stab whoever steps inside.
“Rose.”
The voice stops me cold.
Matteo Moretti stands in the doorway, hands visible, posture calm but alert like he’s prepared for exactly this reaction.
I suck in a shaky breath. “Mr. Moretti?”
Relief crashes into me so hard my knees threaten to buckle. My grip loosens and the pen clatters to the floor, suddenly ridiculous.
“Matteo is fine.” His gaze follows the pen on the floor with a mix of perplexity and amusement. “Were you going to stab me with that?”
“… Maybe?” I squeak.
His mouth twitches. A ghost of a smirk. It fills me with an odd sort of warmth. I’m not used to seeing Matteo Moretti smiling.
Actually, I’m not used to seeing him outside of work at all. I’m surprised he even knows my name.
He looks the same as he always does: dark suit, dangerous presence, shockingly hot features. The hint of washboard abs under his fitted shirt. Not that I’ve thought about them. Much.
But there’s something different in his golden eyes now: concern.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to make sense of anything at all. “Why am I here?” My voice cracks despite my best efforts. “Why are my plants here? Did you…” A horrible flicker of suspicion darts through me. “Did you kidnap me?”
A low, indignant yowl answers before he can.
Wasabi jumps onto the bed, lands squarely on my lap, and fixes me with his one good eye like he’s daring me to question his authority. Warm. Solid. Real.
My breath finally breaks. I scoop him up and press my face into his fur, laughing weakly because crying feels like it might never stop once it starts.
“Did you kidnap meandmy cat?” I mumble incredulously.
Matteo huffs something that might be a laugh. “He was… persuasive. But no, Miss Brown, I did not kidnap you. That was someone else’s objective last night.” His face turns hard. “And I was not going to stand and watch.”
I look up at him then, really look, confusion tangling with gratitude and fear. “You saved me,” I say, because that much is suddenly very clear.
“Yes,” he answers simply.
