Page 52 of Matteo

"Should've never brought you into this," I mutter under my breath, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. But fuck, what was I supposed to do? Leave her alone, unprotected? Not a chance.

We pull up to our fortress of a home, and I glance over at her again. She doesn't stir, even when I kill the engine. The silence is deafening; only the sound of my own ragged breathing fills the space. It's a stark contrast to the chaos of earlier, the screams, the begging. Christ, I can still hear it ringing in my ears.

"Time to get up, Princess," I say, but there's no movement from her. I slip out of the car, walk around to her side, and open the door. With more tenderness than I ever thought I could possess, I scoop her up into my arms. Her head rests against my chest, and for a moment, I allow myself the illusion that we're just a normal couple coming home from a late-night date.

As I carry her through the threshold, I can't shake the feeling that I've crossed a line tonight. There's no going back now. She's seen the beast in full glory, watched as I carved up a man without a second thought. She didn't flinch after that first wave of shock passed—fuck, she's stronger than I gave her credit for. Stronger than me, even.

In our bedroom, I lay her down gently, the moonlight casting shadows over her delicate features. But there's nothing delicate about what she witnessed tonight. About what she did. My gut twists with guilt, but protective instincts drown it out. I need her close, always.

"Angel needs to clean the car," I remind myself, tapping out a quick message before stripping off my blood-stained clothes—they'll burn tonight, along with any trace of what happened.

The shower hisses to life, steam curling into the air. Now for the hard part. "Eleanor," I shake her shoulder, hating to disturb her, "we gotta wash this night off us."

"Fuck off," she groans, swatting at me, her eyes still closed.

"Come on, love. Up you get." I help her sit up, watching as reality slowly seeps back into her gaze. There's a darknessthere now, one that mirrors my own. We're both stained, marked by the violence of this life.

"Shower," I say again, firmer this time. She nods, pushing herself to stand. We undress in silence, the gravity of what we've shared hanging between us. Every piece of clothing that drops to the floor feels like shedding another layer of our old lives, lives that are slipping further away with each passing second.

"Let's get you cleaned up," I say, guiding her into the steam, the water cascading over us both. She's prickly, yeah, but right now, she's also mine to protect, mine to cleanse.

"Come here, Princess," I mutter, the gruffness of my voice echoing off the tiled walls. I reel her in close, my arms a steel band around her waist. She's shivering, but not from cold—she's seen too much, done too much tonight. I snag the shower puff, the floral scent a stark contrast to the copper tang still lingering in the air. I lather it up with her sweet-smelling gel and start scrubbing her skin, trying to erase the night's transgressions.

"Baby, I know you mean well, but if you shove any more shampoo into my hair it’s going to start squeaking,” she protests with a weary half-laugh, prising the bottle from my hand. Her delicate fingers work the conditioner into her locks, taming the chaos I've caused.

My turn. The water washes away the evidence, the red sin swirling down the drain. It should've been enough, but the guilt clings tighter than blood. Eleanor's gaze catches mine, a small hand lifting my chin. "You okay there, Matteo?"

I ain’t. But I nod because she needs me to be strong, unbreakable.

"I shouldn’t have taken you with me tonight." My admission hangs heavy between us, steam curling like ghosts around our bodies.

"Yes, you should have," she insists, a smile playing on her lips that doesn't reach those dark eyes. "I needed the closure..." Her words trail off, each one laden with a pain that mirrors my own twisted soul.

"Fuck, Princess," I curse under my breath, choking on the reality of her beside me in this violent world I've dragged her into. "I can't leave you at home without me."

She understands the madness that fuels me, always has. With gentle hands, she starts washing my hair, her touch soothing the beast roaring in my chest. "Lean back, let me rinse it out," she commands softly.

I comply, letting the water cascade over my head, chasing away the grime and the guilt for a fleeting moment. "Nice and squeaky!" She teases, light in the darkness we've woven around ourselves.

She's the light; hell, she's the fucking flare that burns through the shadows of my existence. Love at first sight? That's for fairy tales. But the moment I saw her, something clicked into place—an unholy recognition. And ever since, I've been caught in her gravity, relentlessly pulled toward her.

"Whatever our souls are made of; hers and mine are the same," I murmur into her ear, the words of some dead author who knew what it was to find your equal in another. A perfect match in imperfection.

"You knew it before I did," she whispers back, acknowledgingthe truth we both live—the inevitable pull between us that neither heaven nor hell could sever.

"Yes, I did, but that's the game, Princess," I growl before capturing her lips in a fierce kiss. Her throaty moan ignites a primal hunger within me, my body responding eagerly to her nearness. With a playful smirk, she teases, "Alright, alright, let's conserve some water for the damn whales." Stepping out of the shower, she drapes a towel around her curves. As she leans over to twist her hair into a wrap on top of her head, every line of her body speaks of effortless grace and seduction. "Keep tempting fate like that, Princess," I warn lowly as desire coils in my gut. She straightens up with a sly smile and challenges back, "And what if that's exactly what I'm after?"

"Game on, Princess," I say with a predatory grin, my voice a low rumble of anticipation. I scoop her up with ease, her slight frame no match for the strength that life in the shadows has carved into my muscles. She laughs, a sound that's music and madness wrapped in silk, as I carry her through to the bedroom. The plush carpet mutes our steps, but nothing can soften the hunger that roars through me.

I lay her down face first onto the mattress, the softness of it an insulting contrast to the hardness that's building within me. "Don't move," I growl, my lips brushing against the shell of her ear, my breath hot against her skin. I peel away the towel that clings to her body, revealing the canvas of her flesh, still slick from the shower. The water droplets are like diamonds against her skin, and I'm about to claim every fucking one of them.

My hands trail fire up her thighs, igniting every nerveending along the way until they come to rest on the twin peaks of her ass. I savour the moment, then bring my hand down hard. The slap echoes in the room, a declaration of intent, and her flesh blooms with the flush of pink that follows. It's a sight that fuels my desire, and I do it again, watching the colour deepen, listening to the whimpers that spill from her lips.

"I love the colour pink on you, Princess." My words are husky with lust as I survey my handiwork. I can almost feel the sting myself—can almost taste the sweet pain that's threaded with pleasure.

"Are you wet yet?" My voice is taunting, knowing full well the effect I have on her. I slide my fingers between those perfect cheeks, seeking the heat of her. She's wet, but not enough—not for what I have planned. I want her dripping, want her desperate.

I yank her hips upward, exposing her further to my gaze, to my touch. She gasps, a sound caught between surprise and need, as I rain down more blows upon her now tender flesh. Each smack is a symphony, each whimper a verse in the song of our twisted love.

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