My gaze lands on the fireplace poker leaning beside the cold hearth.I move fast, quiet, grabbing it with trembling fingers, the weight of it both reassuring and completely useless against men who know how to kill without blinking.
The footsteps grow louder…heavier.
Closer.
Each step punches through the silence like a warning, a promise, death dressed in leather shoes and patience.
I press myself tighter into the corner, the poker clutched in white-knuckled hands, breath locked in my throat.
And I wait.
For a face.
For a reason to swing.
The footsteps pause, just on the other side of the wall.
My breath stutters.
My grip tightens on the fireplace poker.
My heart hammers, pounding out a warning… run, fight, fucking do something.
Then a shadow moves first, stretching across the floor.
I don’t hesitate.I swing.Hard, fast, all instinct and fear.The poker whistles through the air, aimed for a skull, a throat, for something.
But the bastard moves fast, jerking back just in time.And in the split second it takes me to recover, a hand lashes out and grabs my wrist, tight enough to make my fingers go numb.
“What the fuck, Emery?”
Matteo.
His voice is low and furious, jaw tight, eyes burning into mine like I just betrayed him.He yanks the poker from my grip and lets it crash to the floor.
He stares at me, as if I’ve lost my goddamn mind.His grip tightens around my wrist, just enough to remind me who’s in control.His eyes, cold and dark, bore into mine, searching for the truth, trying to rip it out piece by piece.
“I thought we were past this shit,” he snarls, voice like gravel and gasoline.“You think I dragged you out here just to put a bullet in your fucking skull?” He steps in closer, heat radiating off him, fury bleeding through every word.“If I wanted you dead, Emery, you’d be in the fucking ground already.What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Next time maybe don’t sneak around like a fucking predator, Matteo.”
He stares at me.Not with anger.Not entirely.There’s something else simmering behind his eyes, something darker, hungrier.I swear for a second, he leans in.
It coils low in my stomach, that look—uncertain, dangerous, torn between slamming me against the wall or fucking me against it.
Then he blinks.And just like that, the spell breaks.
He lets go of me.
The loss of contact hits hard, cold and sudden, as if he took something with him the moment his fingers left my wrist.
He turns and walks further into the room.The bag slung over his shoulder lands on the counter with a solid thud.Food.Supplies.
He doesn’t look at me.Just reaches into the bag, pulls out a takeout container, and sets it down on the edge of the counter, closer to me than to him.
“Penne with extra garlic,” he mutters, voice low and rough, as if saying it out loud costs him something.As if he’s trying to make it sound casual.
But it’s not.He remembers.Not just the dish, but exactly how I like it.
