I have never felt safer.
Matteo shifts in his sleep. His grip tightens instantly, a subconscious, feral reaction to any movement. His massive hand flexes against my hip. He grunts, a deep, gravelly sound vibrating through his chest and straight into my spine.
"Mine," he murmurs into my skin, his voice thick with sleep and absolute obsession.
"I'm not going anywhere, giant," I whisper back, running my fingers through his dark hair, lingering on the sharp silver at his temples.
His eyelids flutter open. Dark, brooding eyes lock onto mine. There is no groggy transition between sleep and wakefulness for a man who has lived in a mental war zone for twenty years. He goes from deeply asleep to lethally alert in a microsecond. He scans the room, scans the shadows, and then his gaze drops back to my face.
The tension drains out of his massive frame. He buries his face back in my neck, inhaling deeply.
"You smell like fresh linen," he rumbles, his lips brushing my pulse point. "And mine."
"You smell like a bakery that also sells illegal liquor."
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my chest. "You complain too much, Clara."
"You bought me. You have to deal with the customer service issues."
He pushes up on one elbow, towering over me. His chest is broad, covered in dark hair, every inch of him screaming danger and brutality. Yet the way he looks at me holds a reverence that completely undoes my sassy defenses. He reaches up, his large, calloused thumb brushing a stray curl away from my cheek.
"I didn't buy you," he says, his voice dropping into that dark, serious register. "I claimed you. There's a difference. The contract is ashes. You stayed because you belong to me."
"I stayed because you make really good bread."
His jaw twitches. A slow, dangerous smirk curves his lips. "Is that right?"
"Mhm. It's purely culinary."
He dips his head, capturing my lips in a deep, bruising kiss. It tastes like coffee, dark rum, and absolute devotion. My hands tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. He happily complies, dropping his crushing weight back down, pressing me deep into the mattress.
My stomach dips. Heat crawls up my neck.
The memories of last night—the flour, the kitchen island, the violent lockdown, the sheer, primal chaos of his claiming—rush back with vivid clarity.
"We need to get up," I murmur against his mouth. "Your pristine, commercial-grade kitchen looks like a flour bomb went off inside a tornado."
Matteo sighs heavily, pressing his forehead against mine. "Let the cleaners handle it."
"Absolutely not. If one of your mafia cleaners walks into that kitchen, they're going to find torn silk panties draped over the espresso machine. I am not dealing with that kind of workplace gossip."
A dark, rumbling laugh escapes him.
He rolls off the bed, completely unashamed of his naked, brutally scarred body, and tosses me one of his oversized black t-shirts. It hangs to my mid-thigh, swallowing me entirely.
He pulls on a pair of dark sweatpants, leaving his chest bare, the gold medallion resting against his sternum.
We walk out into the massive, open-concept living area. The penthouse remains in lockdown mode. The heavy steel shutters cover the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the luxury apartment into an impenetrable vault. The ambient track lighting provides a soft, golden glow.
The kitchen is exactly the disaster zone I predicted.
White flour coats the black marble island. It dusts the stainless steel appliances. A broken bag of yeast sits tipped over near the sink. My torn underwear hangs pitifully from the handle of the commercial oven. The physical evidence of Matteo's feral loss of control is everywhere.
He stands in the doorway, staring at the mess. His massive hands rest on his hips.
"I ruined the dough," he states, completely serious.
I burst out laughing, clapping a hand over my mouth. "That is your takeaway? You destroyed the kitchen, annihilated my clothes, and permanently scarred the counter, but you're mourning the focaccia dough?"
