No, if they find out, it won’t be fury alone. It would be blood.
I pull back a fraction, and the panic rises, bitter as bile. “My family—” I begin.
“I know,” Matteo cuts in, soft but fierce. His palm cups my jaw; his thumb brushes beneath my eye as if he can swipe away the fear. “I’m not stupid, little lamb. I’m working on it. My grandfather wants you there.”
I inhale, the breath ragged.
“Meeting your family…” My voice breaks. “If they find out—if Conor finds out?—”
His fingers thread into the nape of my neck and hold me steady.
“Listen to me.” His forehead presses to mine, solid and immovable. “You’re safe with me. I won’t let anyone touch you. I’ll figure it out.”
“You promise?” My voice comes out thin, barely more than breath.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “I swear it.” The words are iron. “I’ll burn this place to ash before I let them touch you.”
The air leaves my chest. There’s so much he doesn’t know, so much waiting in the dark, but when he reaches for me again, I let him. His arms fold around me, tight, sheltering. His heartbeat thunders through his ribs, drowning out the sea.
“I trust you,” I whisper into his throat.
His hold hardens and for one fragile second, I believe him. I believe we can outrun every devil hunting us.
Even though I know better.
I lean back slightly, his hands still locked around me like armor I don’t deserve.
“There’s something else,” I breathe, voice lost to the crash below.
Matteo stills. “What?” His tone sharpens, low, protective, dangerous.
“I’ve been getting messages,” I say. “Anonymous. No name, no number. They vanish after I read them.”
His body tenses under my palms. “What kind of messages, Aoife?”
“Warnings,” I say, the word sticking in my throat. “About Blackstone. About me being watched. They say danger’s coming. They said I can’t trust them, but I can trust him.” I pause. “Do they mean you or Conor?”
He goes silent. Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, his forehead pressing hard against mine.
“You should’ve told me,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “You don’t keep things like that to yourself.”
“I didn’t know if it was real,” I whisper. “Or if it was another game.”
His thumb drags across my jaw. “Everything at Blackstone’s a game,” he says. “But this? You don’t play alone anymore, little lamb.” Something in me cracks. I don’t realize I’m shaking until he pulls me closer.
“We’ll find out who’s behind it,” he says. “And when we do, I’ll end them.” A breath shudders out of me.
“I trust you,” I whisper again, because I need him to hear it.
He looks down, eyes fierce and unblinking, devotion burning under the violence, then, without warning, he leans in and presses a slow kiss to the crown of my head.
Not hunger. Not claim.
Faith.
“I’ve got you, little lamb,” he murmurs.
And for the first time, with the storm clawing the sky apart around us, I believe him.
