Page 68 of Matteo

Eleanor's still form is the only thing in focus, a beacon in the storm. For her, I'd walk through hell barefoot, let alone hang onto consciousness.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Eleanor Wang

Waking up in strange places is becoming a fucking habit. First, some random library, now this. My eyes snap open to dim light, casting shadows over peeling paint and rusted equipment. It's a hospital room straight out of a horror flick. I turn my head, and there he is—Matteo, still as death on a bed that mirrors mine. Panic claws at my chest.

"Matteo!" My voice cracks like a whip through the stale air. No response. "Matteo!" Adrenaline surges, and I try to bolt upright, but agony rips through my leg, chaining me down. Desperation takes over. "Help!" I hurl the word at the open door, hoping it carries enough weight to bring someone, anyone.

Footsteps thunder toward me, and two familiar faces crash into the room. Angel and Spike—my lifelines in this fucked-up world. Relief slams into me hard enough to make my knees weak—if I could stand.

"Matteo," I gasp, pointing feebly at his motionless form.

"Easy," Spike says, all controlled calm as he engulfs me in a hug that's too tight, too warm. "He's sedated. Took a bullet. Doc fixed him up."

His embrace is a vice, his words meant to comfort, but they're a reminder that we're always one step from the grave in this godforsaken life. "You scared the fucking shit out of me," he grumbles, frowning like I've personally offended him.

"Move out of the way," Angel snaps from behind him, all rough affection and simmering violence. Spike steps aside, and then Angel's arms are around me, a different kind of prison. "Do that again and I'll fucking you myself," he jokes, or maybe half-jokes—it's hard to tell with us.

Tears burn hot trails down my cheeks, each drop a silent testament to the chaos that's become my norm. Angel's looking at me with those eyes that have seen too much death and not enough daylight. "What happened?" he asks, voice rough like gravel.

"Fuck if I know," I snap back, my voice a cracked whisper. The image of Patrick's twisted grin is seared into my mind. "Woke up, and there he was... Jesus Christ, Patrick!" My head jerks around, half-expecting his shadow to loom over us, knife ready.

"Shhhh, it's okay," Angel soothes, pulling me in for another hug. His arms are bands of steel wrapped in velvet—comfort with a promise of violence. "I unloaded on him. Chest turned to Swiss cheese. He's gone."

A sob rips from my throat, raw and jagged. "Fuck! Whatam I gonna say to Aela?" I'm a mess, emotions tangled like barbed wire.

Spike's stare bores into me, incredulity etched all over his face. "Seriously, that’s what you're worried about right now?" Disbelief colours his tone, a sharp contrast to the sterile chill of the room.

I shrug, a pathetic attempt at indifference. "Suppose so; my brain's a fucking blender right now." Truth is, my thoughts are a hailstorm of bullets—no beginning, no end, just relentless impact.

The gruffness of Matteo's voice slices through the haze of my panic, a raspy demand that yanks me back to the now. "I think you should stop hugging Angel and hug me instead," he growls, pain lacing his tone like poison in a fine wine.

"Matteo…" Relief floods me, hot and wild, as my eyes lock onto his form. He's eye half lidded, all dark hair and inked skin—a beautiful disaster. A devil with angel's eyes.

"Fuck off boss, this is my hug; get your own," Angel retorts without missing a beat, laughter bubbling up from his chest, raw and real. There's something disarming about seeing him like this—guard down, smile playing on his lips.

"That's what I’m trying to do!" Matteo shoots back, a smirk twisting his features. Even half-dead, he's got fire enough to scorch the world.

Spike's chuckle rolls across the room, and then there's movement—an orchestra of mechanical whirs and clicks. "Hang on, boss." The beds groan as they're forced into an awkward waltz, the scrape of metal against the floor jarring in the quiet.

"Hey, Princess," Matteo murmurs once the commotionsettles. His hand, scarred and steady, stretches out towards me, bridging the gap Spike's just closed between the beds.

"Hey yourself," I rasp, voice thick, as I take his hand. It's a lifeline thrown across stormy seas—the touch of madness wrapped in a promise of sanctuary. His grip tightens, and for a moment, the chaos fades to a whisper.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Matteo Ricci

Eleanor's voice cuts through the grogginess, a lifeline drawing me back to the land of the living. My lids are heavy bastards, fighting me, but her sound—the fucking sweetest symphony—makes it worth the battle.

"Angel... Spike..." Her words float around, a soothing balm. I lie there, still as death, focusing on that voice while pain hammers my chest and back—a dull, relentless reminder of the bullet's kiss. The doc's cocktail must be top-shelf shit for me to be this numb. Lucky me, I'm not pushing up daisies yet.

Finally, my body heeds the call, and I wrench my eyes open to a glare that's akin to a damn interrogation room. Who the hell needs this many lights? They're trying to blind me or what?

My gaze snags on Eleanor, her face buried in Angel's chest, his hand on her back. It’s a tender moment that grates on something deep inside me. Her hair's a mess, wild andfree, nothing like the sleek curtain she always bitches about. Dead straight, my ass. I wanna tell her how good this chaos looks on her—wonder if she'd see the humor in it.

"Seriously that’s what you worried about right now?" Spike's voice is laced with disbelief, directed at her.

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