“I understand more than you think.” Maybe I don’t understand his level, but I have an idea about it.
Another silence.
He notices the bruises, the ones under my eyes and the faint mark across my cheekbone. His gaze lingers, but he doesn’t sayanything. Instead, he reaches over slowly and takes the knife from my fingers.
“Still using this?” he murmurs, examining the handle.
“It’s mine,” I reply.
“It’s wrong for you.”
“So you keep saying. My trainer said anything smaller will get me killed.” Matteo's lips curl into a smirk, and he takes another drag as he continues to examine the knife. Like his thinking on how to make it smaller for my hand.
“You’re gripping too hard. Here.” He takes my hand, rough fingers sliding over mine, adjusting the blade. His touch is firm but slow, like he’s afraid one more push will shatter something already cracked.
“Relax your fingers. Don’t fight the blade. Move with it. You control it without choking it.”
“Sounds like you're talking about something else,” I murmur, trying to lighten the heat rising under my skin. He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he holds my gaze.
Dead on. Unmoving, and suddenly the knife doesn’t matter anymore.
His fingers brush mine again. Slow. Intentional.
“You’re going to get me killed,” I whisper.
His voice is rough gravel. “No, but you’re going to ruin me.”
He’s close now, thigh pressed against mine, hand still over mine. His breath grazes my lips, warm, whiskey-sweet, heavy.
He doesn’t move. He waits, as if needing permission, waiting for me to close the distance.
The moment drags, heavy with everything we can’t name, but I want him. Even if it’s only once more. I move a little closer.
His mouth meets mine, not gentle, not harsh, but deliberate. Slow. Devouring. He presses closer like he needs to memorize me. His hand slides into my hair, fingers curling tight, anglingmy head like territory claimed. My lips part, and he deepens the kiss.
My hands tremble as I reach for him. One slides to his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart. The other fist in his shirt as he pulls me closer, devouring like he’s been starving for me.
He pulls back an inch, forehead against mine, breath ragged.
“This is a mistake,” he says, voice raw, like speaking the words wounds him.
“I know,” I whisper, leaning into him anyway.
His thumb traces my mouth, slowly, like he can’t decide whether to erase the kiss or mark me with it.
“But I’d make it again, little lamb,” he breathes. His tone cracks, half apology, half warning.
He turns away, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.
“If this happens again…” He exhales roughly. “I’ll be the one leading you to the slaughterhouse.”
The words gut me. My body locks, eyes stinging.
He doesn’t look at me, he already knows what it means to touch me, what it costs us both.
It isn’t only restraint. It’s the rage coiled inside him, twisted, hungry, burning. I saw it in the fight. I feel it now, this close.
He’d kill for me.
