Page 20 of Crimson Reign

It's the sound of running footsteps that breaks us apart.

"We need to move," he says, voice rough. "Now."

"Fiona—"

"Already being transferred."

Within minutes, we moved through the hospital while they loaded Valentino into a separate vehicle for emergency treatment.

By the time we reach the new hospital—a private facility with military-grade security—I'm swaying from exhaustion and blood loss. But I refuse to let go of Fiona, who has finally fallen into a deep sleep, her temperature down.

"Pneumonia," the new doctor tells us. "Severe, but we've caught it in time. She'll need to stay for forty-eight hours."

I sink into the chair beside her hospital crib, relief making my knees weak. Matteo stands guard by the door, his posture rigid, eyes constantly scanning.

"Get some rest," he tells me. "I'll watch over her."

We stayed for two days. When Fiona is discharged, her color has returned, and she breathes easier.

The drive back to Nico's estate is quiet, surrounded by an escort of armed men, while Fiona sleeps peacefully in her car seat.

It's only when we're back behind the walls, Fiona settled in her crib under Isabella's watchful eye, that I find myself alone with Matteo again.

He's in the study, issuing orders over the phone. When he spots me, he ends the call.

"She's asleep?" he asks.

I nod. "The doctor says she should sleep through the night. The fever's completely gone."

Relief flashes across his features before he schools them back to neutrality.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with all we haven't said.

"About what happened at the hospital," I start. "The kiss."

His posture stiffens slightly. "I shouldn't have done that. Not there. Not then."

"But you don't regret it." It's not a question.

"No."

"I feel like I'm betraying him," I admit quietly. "Mark. Everything he was. Everything we had."

"I understand."

"Do you?" I challenge, suddenly angry. "My husband is dead. I watched him die. And now I'm standing here with—" I break off.

"With a killer," Matteo finishes, voice flat.

"No. That's not... I don't see you that way. Not anymore. And that's the problem."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by something that looks almost like hope.

"I don't know what this is," I continue, gesturing between us.

"It's not Stockholm syndrome, if that's what you're thinking," he interrupts. "You're not a victim, Elena. You're a survivor. And I didn’t kidnap you, I rescued you."

The memory of the knife in my hand, the assassin's blood on my skin, flashes through my mind.

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