We’ve been parked outside the house for a couple minutes now but I haven’t moved a muscle. I think about the events of the day. I wanted to confront her as soon as she got that text after breakfast, but I decided to be patient. I was curious and wanted to know who the fucker luring her out was.
I also really wanted to know how she planned to pull off sneaking out of the house. Safe to say she exceeded expectations. While my reflex reaction had been anger and irritation, I’d eventually grown amused. And a little bit impressed.
My Kitten never fails to surprise me.
When she shifts against my chest and a shiver racks through her body, I know I have to move her inside. I manage to step out of the car and lift her into my arms, surprised when she doesn’t wake up. She stirs slightly as I carry her into the house and up the stairs, gripping the material of my shirt, but her eyes still don’t open.
I take her to her bedroom and lay her on the bed before placing the blanket over her. She’s entirely vulnerable like this. And beautiful, so beautiful it hurts. I stare at her for a long moment before, eventually, I decide to leave.
“Matteo,” she suddenly calls softly, grabbing my hand.
I’m surprised by the alertness in her tone. I was sure she was asleep. I lower myself onto the bed. Her eyes are bleary and half open, meaning she’s not exactly conscious right now.
“Fuck me, Matteo,” she whispers. “I’ll even say please.”
My lips tilt up as I run my hand over her hair softly, brushing back the strands on her face.
“Not tonight, beautiful.”
I wait until she falls back into a deep sleep before leaving. I find Roscoe standing in the hallway beyond her bedroom door.
“What’s up?” I ask, walking toward my room.
He follows quietly, not speaking for several moments. I wait until he spits out whatever it is he’s got on his mind.
“She’s a lot of trouble, boss,” he finally says. “The prosecutor.”
I turn to look at him. “Trouble or not, she’s mine. So be careful what you say or think about her.”
He holds my gaze for half a breath before inclining his head. “Got it, boss.”
I enter my bedroom and shut the door, and then I’m left alone with the weight of all that’s happened and the possibility of all that’s to come.
Lindsay walks downstairs around 10 a.m., stepping into the kitchen. she looks like she didn’t sleep enough, despite sleepingfor more than eight hours. Her hair is a mess, and there’s a faint crease on the side of her cheek from where it was pressed into the pillow.
It’s adorable.
“Morning,” she mutters, sliding into the chair across from me.
“Rough night?” I question, amused.
She shoots me a sharp glare, “I can’t believe you let me drink so much last night.”
“I’m sorry, let you?”
She doesn’t reply. She reaches for the coffee in the middle of the table waiting for her, taking a slow sip. I watch her over the rim of my own glass.
“Where’s Leonardo?” she asks, looking around.
“He got an early start to the day. Roscoe took him to his music lessons. He plays the piano,” I inform her.
“That’s nice.”
The cook brings a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast, placing it in front of her. Lindsay shoots her a grateful look before turning her attention to her meal. We eat in silence. It’s not uncomfortable. I spend most of the time on my phone, answering a couple of emails.
When we’re done eating, I stop her before she can return to her room.
“You need to shower and change,” I state.
