Page 81 of The One
His eyes are sharp and dark as he studies me with an intensity that makes my pulse jump. He’s so close, I can see the faint crease between his brows. That crackling energy in the air that’s there whenever we’re near still lingers, but right now it’s quieter, tempered by the concern in his gaze.
Satisfied I’m unhurt, he lifts my hand, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. I flinch, and we both glance down, noticing the small cuts all over my skin. There are more on my legs, all of them minor, nothing serious.
Yet Mateo freezes, his expression hardening like he’s been turned to stone, his face going as pale as ice. His grip on my hand tightens, and I feel his pulse racing beneath the surface. I look down, wondering if I’d missed something about these cuts, but they’re exactly what I thought.
“Mateo?” I ask, uncertain.
But he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even seem to hear me.
His whole demeanor has shifted from one second to the next. He seems locked in a state so tense it lets me forget my own shock.
Our roles suddenly seem reversed, and now I’m the one who wants to draw him out of whatever is happening in his head. His gaze remains fixed on my hand, distant and unseeing, and it’s clear his mind is miles away.
“Mateo, I’m okay.” I say, having the urge to reassure him. But his eyes stay fixed on those trivial injuries.
Slowly, I reach up with my free hand and cup his face. My thumb traces gentle strokes over his cheek, and finally, his eyes lift to meet mine. They’re guarded, but behind that shield, I glimpse raw pain. It stirs something deep within me. Something that wants to take it all away for him, to carry whatever burden weighs on him so he doesn’t have to.
“I’m okay,” I murmur softly, sensing this is all because of the cuts I must’ve gotten from flying shards of glass and other debris.
His eyes flick back and forth between mine like he’s just woken up and is struggling to remember where he is.
Then he gives a small shake of his head, snapping himself free of whatever held him. He looks away, slowly regaining his composure. Without another glance, he slides back to the front seat and gets out. I watch him, confused and caught off guard by the sudden shift in his mood.
What was that?
When I don’t follow, he bends low, peering into the car and holding his hand out to me.
“Let’s get you inside. We need to clean those cuts,” he says, his voice steady again.
I slide my hand into his, and as soon as our fingers meet, he wraps his firmly around mine. Somehow, that small gesture grounds me and steadies the nerves his strange behavior just rattled.
I scoot across the backseat and clamber out through the passenger side, inwardly wishing this Ferrari had four doors instead of two.
Needing to fully grasp what we survived, I walk around to the other side of the car, the side that took the brunt of the gunfire. My breath catches as I take it in.
The sleek, once-flawless black paint is now marred with a scatter of dents and scuff marks, the glass pocked and spider-webbed but miraculously intact, all thanks to the bulletproofing.
My chest tightens with a mix of fear and gratitude. If it weren’t for this car’s reinforced armor, I might not be standing here. The thought is sobering.
“Come on,dolcezza. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He takes my elbow gently and guides me out of the garage and through the quiet house to my room.
It’s strange entering it with him following me. If I wasn’t still in shock, I’m sure my nerves would get the better of me. But as it is, I’m somewhat numb.
“I’ll get the first aid kit and some tea. Why don’t you have a shower, wash off the last hour? It will make you feel better.”
On autopilot, I nod. Mateo steps closer, his hands settling on my shoulders in a gentle squeeze. He leans in, his nose brushing through my hair as he inhales deeply, then a soft kiss presses against the top of my head.
“It’ll all be okay, Mari, I promise.”
With a gentle push, he guides me toward the bathroom, and when I reach for the doorknob, he seems satisfied and turns to leave. “I’ll be right back.”
As he leaves, the phone in my purse that’s still slung across my body vibrates, and I pull it out with shaky fingers, staring at the display.
Isa.
I can’t talk to her. Not while I’m in this state. I’d only worry her.
If things had gone even slightly differently, I might never have spoken to my sister again, or to anyone else. The weight of that realization crashes over me, sharper and heavier than before, and my knees give out as I slide down the door to the floor.
