One step forward…
And everything breaks.
The backseat of Matteo Vittorio’s car is too clean. That’s the first thing my mind latches onto because everything else is too big, too impossible, too fragile to hold all at once. The leather is smooth beneath my hands. The air smells faintly of cedar and something expensive, something sharp and masculine that doesn’t belong to Cobra. The windows are tinted so dark the world outside looks like it’s passing through smoke.
I’m dressed now. A plain shirt. Soft pants. Socks. Shoes.
Matteo had them brought to me before we left, and I put them on with hands that shook so badly I could barely work the fabric over my skin. Covered should mean better. Covered should mean safe.
It doesn’t. I still feel exposed. Like the lights from that room are still on me. Like the cameras are still watching. Like every inch of my body remembers being turned into something for strangers to assess.
Matteo sits beside me, not touching, not crowding. One ankle crossed over his knee, hand resting loosely near his phone, posture calm in a way that makes the entire car feel like it belongs to him. It does, I guess. Everything seems to. He hasn’t said much since we left his house. His men are in the front. Another car follows behind us. Or maybe two. I caught headlights in the mirror once before the tint swallowed them again.
I don’t ask. I don’t know which questions are safe yet. I don’t know if safe is even the right word for a man like him.But he removed the collar. He told me I was going home. And now the car is moving through the dark toward the only place I can think about without feeling like I’ll come apart.
Home.
The word comes before I’m ready for it. Not my apartment. Not the salon. Not the life I had before all of this started.
The clubhouse. Cobra’s room. His arms. His heartbeat under my ear. The chaos. The women. The kids. The men who terrify the world and somehow became the people I trust to stand between me and it.
Home is where he is.
My throat tightens, and I turn my face toward the window so Matteo doesn’t see. Or maybe he does. Men like him probably see everything.
“You’re quiet,” he says. His voice is smooth, calm, almost conversational.
I keep my eyes on the dark glass. “Should I be talking?”
“No.”
“Then I’m doing fine.”
A faint sound leaves him. Almost a laugh. “You’ve got a spine,” he says. “I see why he tore himself apart.”
I look at him then. “He did?”
Matteo’s gaze meets mine, unreadable but not cruel. “Men like that don’t lose control quietly.”
My chest aches. “I need to see him.”
“You will.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
I look back at the window, fingers twisting in the hem of the shirt. Soon feels too far away. Soon feels like a lie even when I want to believe it.
Then the gates come into view. My breath catches. The Deathstalkers emblem is barely visible in the low light, but I know it. I know the fence, the guard post, the shape of the lot beyond it. The car slows, and Connor steps into view, one hand already near his waist. Then he sees the vehicle. His face changes. Shock first. Then action. He opens the gate without question. No hesitation. The car rolls through.
This is it.
My heart slams against my ribs hard enough to hurt.
The clubhouse appears ahead, lights glowing through the windows, familiar and impossible. I don’t realize I’m leaning forward until Matteo’s voice pulls me back. “It’s a shame he wanted you back.”
I turn to him slowly.
