“No,” I whisper back. “She’ll live. That’s the difference between you and me.”
Leo turns to bark orders at the trainers, and I walk away because if I don’t, I’m going to kill someone before this trial is over. I have one more trial, and we’ve heard nothing about it. It’s a waiting game, and I’m losing my patience.
Chapter 37
Aoife
The halls echo with laughter and whispers. Each step feels heavier, like I’m dragging my shame through these blood-soaked halls. The whispers aren’t whispers anymore. They’re fangs, cold, sharp, brutal.
They don’t say my name. They call me,“The Irish.”
It rolls off their tongues like poison on silk. I used to flinch. Now I don’t blink, I walk straight-backed, chin up, pretending I’m not dying inside.
I don’t know what’s changed with Rosa, I thought she would be my friend, but now it feels like I’m a ghost she regrets seeing.
Matteo walked beside me all morning, a storm in his jaw, thunder in his eyes. He hasn’t touched me or spoken to me really. He watches everything, everyone, waiting to snap.
I reach my dorm, heart pounding harder than I thought it would. I just want to grab my bag and leave.
I push open the door. The air feels wrong in here, a gut feeling. My skin prickles as I look around.
The top drawer’s open, just enough to get my attention. I never leave it like that. I’m not messy. I’m precise. Intentional.
I don’t know what they were looking for. I have nothing. I continue to look around my room and freeze when I see it.
The knife.
Buried in my pillow, clean and cruel, pinning a torn piece of parchment.
The blade gleams, a smile in the dark. I walk over, my heart pounding in my chest.
The note’s handwritten.
“If the wolves won’t kill you, I will.”
My breath vanishes. No tears. No scream. Just silence tightening inside me.
I stare at the blade. Someone came in here. Touched my things. Waited for the right moment and left their mark.
My hands shake as I pull the knife free. The parchment flutters, mocking. I sit on the edge of my bed, blade in hand, shoulders tight.
Just the sound of my own pulse, thudding like war drums in my chest, is the only sound I’m hearing.
I slip the note beneath the pillow and slide the knife under it too. The irony cuts deep. I’m Irish, sleeping in an Italian’s room, guarded by a weapon my enemy left me.
There’s nowhere left to belong.
The door opens, my head snaps up, my heart stops.
Matteo fills the doorway, tall, still, unreadable, a god of war in black. His eyes sweep the room, then lock on me. His brows crease, like he’s reading my thoughts.
His voice is low, dangerous. “What happened?”
I press the knife deeper under the pillow. Fingers tight. I don’t know why I’m hiding it. Maybe because if I tell him, someone dies. Because all he’ll have left is rage, or because I’m so used to hiding things from everyone.
No words are escaping, and I don't know why.
Matteo Messina was raised by wolves; he doesn’t believe me for a second. “Move your hand,” Matteo says softly, the words hitting like a hammer.
