Page 431 of Rosetti Family New York
I catch my own scent then—dried sweat mixed with something metallic that might be blood, the warehouse still clinging to my skin like a second skin. My hair feels stiff with grime, and when I touch my cheek, I can feel grit embedded in my pores.
"I need to shower," I say, the awareness suddenly overwhelming. "God, I can smell the warehouse on me. I need to get clean."
"Can you manage it?" His voice carries concern, but not doubt. Like he knows I need to try.
"I think so." I push myself up slowly, gritting my teeth against the protests from my scraped ribs and bruised shoulder. The room tilts slightly, and I pause, breathing through the dizziness.
Matteo is there immediately, his hand gentle on my back. "Easy."
"Why are you still here?" The question comes out sharper than I intended, even as I lean into his touch despite myself.
Something flickers across his face. Not hurt, exactly. More like he was expecting this. "Where else would I be?" A ghost of his familiar smirk appears. "Though I have to say, your bedside manner could use work. Most people start with 'thank you for saving my life.'"
Despite everything, I almost smile. Almost. "Thank you for saving my life."
"Better." The smirk fades into something more serious. "And to answer your question—celebrating felt premature when the woman I love was dead to the world for eighteen hours."
"This is my life." He slides one arm around my waist to support me. "You're my life."
The contact sends heat spiraling through me despite everything, my body responding to his closeness with embarrassing predictability. My pulse kicks up a notch where his arm encircles my waist, and I hate how even now, scraped raw and emotionally gutted, I want to lean into his warmth. "Let me help," he says softly.
The bathroom is elegant and spotless, all marble and clean lines. Matteo keeps one hand on my back as he turns on the shower, steam beginning to fog the glass. When he turns back to me, his eyes are careful, asking permission.
"Your clothes are torn," he says quietly. "And there's blood."
I look down at myself properly for the first time. The black shirt I wore to the warehouse is ripped along one side, darkstains marking where I hit the ground. My jeans are shredded at the knees. I look like I've been through a war.
Which, I suppose, I have.
"I killed him," I say quietly as my hands shake reaching for the hem of my shirt. "I killed my uncle."
"You ended a monster." His hands cover mine, gentle but firm. "That's what heroes do."
"I can manage," I say, but my fingers fumble with the hem of my shirt. The tremor isn't from pain—it's from the way he's looking at me. Like I'm something he wants to unwrap slowly.
"Isabella." His voice is soft, but there's an edge to it that makes my stomach flutter. "Let me."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning that goes far beyond helping me undress. This is about surrender. About letting someone see me stripped down to nothing but bruises and need.
I should say no. Should maintain some distance, some control. Instead, I find myself nodding, my breath catching as his hands cover mine.
"Is it?" I have to raise my arms as he lifts the fabric carefully over the worst of the scrapes. "He was family. He raised me. And I put a bullet in his chest without hesitation."
"Because he was going to kill you. And Rafe. And eventually all of us." His jaw tightens as he takes in the damage mapped across my skin. Scrapes along my ribs where I rolled behind cover. Bruises darkening on my shoulder from hitting the warehouse floor. "You saved us."
The shirt comes off in pieces, fabric catching on dried blood and grit. "I destroyed everything I used to be," I confess as he traces the air just above the worst scrape, not quite touching. "I don't know who I am anymore."
"You're Isabella Callahan." His hands move to the button of my jeans, and I have to close my eyes against the rush of wantthat sweeps through me. "The woman who chose to stand up instead of kneel. Who chose to act instead of endure."
"I don't feel like her." I'm standing in his bathroom in nothing but my underwear as he helps me step out of the ruined denim, scraped and bruised and completely exposed. "I feel like something else. Something dangerous."
"You are dangerous." His voice is soft, but there's something underneath it. Pride? Admiration? "You always were. Chase just tried to convince you otherwise."
He reaches for the clasp of my bra, unhooking the black lace with practiced ease. The fabric falls away, and heat floods my cheeks. Not from embarrassment, but from the way he's looking at me.
"You're not afraid of me," I realize.
"Afraid of you?" He helps me into the shower, hot water immediately soothing my aching muscles. "Bella, I've been fascinated by you since the moment I saw your photograph. Every layer you've shown me, every wall you've torn down, every time you've surprised me."
