Page 194 of My Italian Love Affair

Chapter Forty-Eight

Matteo

Iknew the second she cancelled on me that something was wrong.

Daphne Sinclair isn’t the type to back out of plans. She’s stubborn as hell and always following through on whatever she sets her mind to - even when it’s a terrible idea, even when I know she’s only doing it to prove a point.

So when she sent that short, clipped message, Iknewsomething must have happened.

And now that I knowwhat- now that I know exactly what that bastard Chapman has been doing, saying,twisting- I can’t fucking breathe without wanting to put my fist through a wall.

I should be at home, I should be relaxing, but how the fuck am I supposed to do that knowing what she’s been dealing with?

He made her question her instincts. Made her second-guess who she could trust.

Made her think - even for a second - thatIwas one ofthem.

That I thought likehim.

The thought makes me feel fucking sick.

I should be out there, tracking him down, making sure he never sets foot near her again. But right now, that’s not what matters.

Hedoesn’t matter.

She does.

She’s still shaken. I can see it in the way she’s carrying herself, the way she tried to play it off like she was fine.

But I know her well enough by now. Iseeher. And she’s not fine.

So I do the only thing that makes sense. I pick her up, cradle her in my arms like she weighs nothing, and carry her to her bedroom.

I have one job tonight: to take care of her. Everything else - Chapman, The Tribune, the absolute fuckingragesimmering in my chest - can wait.

Because right now, she needs me.

She doesn’t say it. She never would. But I see it in the way she lets me carry her, the way she doesn’t argue, doesn’t push me away like she usually does. That fight in her is still there, but right now, she’s letting me take over.

And fuck if I don’t love that.

Her tiny bedroom is dimly lit, her bed unmade, the sheets tangled from whatever restless sleep she tried to get earlier.

It’s a far cry from my sleek, modern home, where everything is polished and pristine.

But I don’t give a shit about that.

This isherspace. It smells like her, feels like her.

And right now, I need to be close to her in the place where she feels safest.

I lay her down gently on the mattress, and I don’t hesitate to climb in beside her, stretching my body along hers, needing to feel her against me. I prop myself up on one elbow, my fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns on her thigh.

She’s so small compared to me - all soft curves and warm skin - and I want to wrap myself around her, shield her from all the bullshit she’s been dealing with.

Instead, I settle for showing her with my hands, my lips, my body.

"You're incredible," I murmur.

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