Page 382 of Rosetti Family New York
"Thank you," I say quietly, wrapping my arms around myself where his used to be. "I just... I needed that."
Something flickers across his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or disappointment. "Of course."
I stand on unsteady legs, putting space between us even though every cell in my body wants to stay curled against his side. "I should go to bed."
He nods, not trying to stop me, but I feel him watching as I move toward the stairs. At the bottom step, I pause without looking back.
"Matteo?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't read too much into this. I was just tired."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it's necessary. For a few minutes, I let myself believe someone could hold me without trying to own me. But that's not how this works. That's not how men like him work.
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and when he speaks, there's something rough in his voice that makes my chest ache. "Whatever you say, bella."
I climb the stairs to my room, every step taking me further from the man who just held me while I fell apart. But even as I close the door between us, I can still feel the phantom warmth of his arms around me.
And that scares me more than any message Chase could ever send.
Because for a moment there, I wanted to stay. I wanted to trust him with more than just my tears. And that's exactly how women like me get lost in men like him.
No matter how gentle the cage, it's still a cage.
Even if some treacherous part of me wishes it wasn't.
11
Matteo
Ifind her in the kitchen, and the hope in my chest dies instantly.
She's wearing her own clothes again. The tailored black dress and heels from the night I charmed her into my car, every line of her body screaming professional distance. The click of her heels on the marble countertop as she shifts weight tells me everything I need to know. My jacket from last night is folded precisely on the back of a chair, the fabric still holding the faint scent of her perfume.
"Good morning," she says, voice perfectly neutral. Pleasant. Like she's greeting a stranger instead of the man who held her while she broke apart.
I pour coffee, the rich aroma filling the space between us. The machine hisses and gurgles, the only sound besides the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Steam rises from the dark liquid as I hand her the mug.
"Sleep well?" I ask, watching her carefully. She won't meet my eyes, won't let our fingers brush when she takes the coffee.
A lie flickers across her face. "Fine, thank you." The porcelain clinks against the marble as she sets the cup down with deliberate care. "I appreciate what you did last night."
I think about the other nights. The ones she doesn't know I've witnessed. The way she tosses and turns, whimpering in her sleep, calling out for people who can't answer. The nightmares that leave her gasping awake at three in the morning, her borrowed sleeping clothes clinging to sweat-dampened skin.
"You don't have to thank me for giving a damn about you," I say, leaning against the counter. The cool granite presses against my back.
Something flickers in her eyes, gone too quickly. "Of course not."
The silver coin finds its way between my fingers, the metal warming against my skin. She's shutting me out, rebuilding every wall I thought we'd torn down.
"What's going on?" I flip the coin.
"Nothing's going on. I'm fine." She wraps her arms around herself, a defensive posture that makes the silk of her dress whisper against itself.
"You're scared."
"I'm not scared." But her pulse jumps visibly in her throat, and I want to press my mouth there, feel that frantic beat against my lips.
