He meets my eyes, a raging green storm and exhaustion. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers so quietly the words barely make it out.
Saoirse returns with a battered tin and a kettle that’s already whistling. Matteo snips my shirt at the hem without looking higher than the wound, hands steady now that there’s a task. The graze is ugly. It’s furrowed skin and burned edges, the kind that bleeds more for drama than danger.
“Hold still,” he murmurs. I do. He cleans it with practiced competence. First saline, then iodine, applying a gentle pressure that makes my vision flicker at the edges. He stitches two neat sutures to close what tape won’t. I stare at the calendar on Saoirse’s fridge to keep from watching his mouth go careful in a way that ruins me.
“Almost done,” he whispers. “Just breathe.”
“I am.”
“More.”
I obey. The last knot cinches and he places the gauze with a touch like a secret, tapes it down, then finally lets himself touchthe uninjured skin beside the bandage. I’m allowed one thumb’s worth of warmth.
“Thank you,” I murmur before my pride can get in the way.
His mouth tilts. “Don’t make it a habit.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He sits back on his heels, looks at me like the fight fell out of him when I wasn’t watching. For a heartbeat, we’re eighteen again and good at nothing except wanting. Then the kettle hisses itself quiet and the heaviness returns.
Saoirse appears at my shoulder with a blanket and an expression I can’t quite read. “You’ll sleep,” she declares. “The guest bedroom is clean enough for royalty.”
“I’m allergic to royalty.” The blanket lands around my shoulders anyway.
Matteo’s hand hovers like it wants to tuck it tighter, but he makes himself stop. “Just a couple of hours,” he repeats, to me, to the room, to whatever god might be listening.
Saoirse points him to the lumpy sofa. He grimaces, then shrugs like he’s been uncomfortable for days, and it doesn’t really matter.
I let them herd me down the hall. The guest room smells faintly of lavender and laundry powder. I sit on the edge of the bed and press my palm to the new bandage, feeling the steady ache like proof I’m still here.
Matteo disappears into the attached bathroom, and I assume he’s cleaning off the remains of my blood from his hands.
“Hey.” Saoirse lingers in the doorway. “That friend of yours… thank God for him.”
I nod. “He’s infuriating,” I mutter. “But useful.”
“Like you.” She throws me the ghost of a smile before her lips harden. She steps closer, lowering her voice. “He’s the one, isn’t he?”
I allow my chin to drop only a fraction.
“He still doesn’t know?”
My head whips back and forth.
“Maybe it’s time, Cait.” And before I can bite out ano, she vanishes through the doorway.
When I lie down, the house settles around me. Boots shift in the sitting room, a kettle being rinsed in the kitchen, a low murmur that might be Saoirse scolding Leo about coasters. The guards take up their quiet orbit. The rain starts again like London can’t help itself.
My lids droop, the exhaustion overwhelming. Somehow, I manage to keep my eyes open until I hear the sharp creak of the bathroom door swinging open. Matteo staggers out. I wait for him to turn toward the door, but instead he inches closer, cautiously at first. When I make no sound of disapproval, he folds down onto the bed, the old mattress hinges squealing their annoyance.
He says nothing.
Just sits there. Taking up space. And warming the icy chill that took hold in my bones the minute I heard Siobhan had been taken. Or maybe it was long before that.
I close my eyes and for the first time in days, the dark doesn’t come with teeth. Because tonight, Matteo is awake beside me listening for footsteps and pretending not to.
“Couple of hours,” I whisper to the ceiling. “Then we keep moving.”
