Chapter 7 #2
The shower is running, which means he's awake and probably has been for some time. I stretch carefully, working feeling back into muscles that aren't used to sharing space with a predator, and try to ignore the way my body still hums with the memory of last night's almost-encounter.
I'm still trying to fully wake up when the bathroom door opens and Matteo emerges in a cloud of steam.
He's naked.
Completely, utterly, gloriously naked.
Even now, water beads along the scar at his jawline, drawing a thin dark line down to his collarbone — a map I still want to trace with my fingertips, to know the route of his pain and survival.
My breath catches in my throat as I take in the sight of him—broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist, the kind of muscle definition that speaks of serious gym time and life-or-death struggles.
His skin is olive-gold, marked with scars that tell stories I don't want to know and tattoos that wind around his arms and across his chest like dark poetry.
But it's not just his body that stops my heart—it's the casual confidence with which he moves, the way he reaches for a towel without any self-consciousness whatsoever, as if being naked in front of me is the most natural thing in the world.
Heat floods through me—sudden, overwhelming, completely unexpected. This isn't the clinical awareness I had of Lorenzo's body during the few times I was forced to see it. This is something else entirely. Something hungry and desperate and alive that I didn't even know I was capable of feeling.
I want him.
The realization hits me. I want to touch that golden skin, to trace those tattoos with my fingers, to find out if he tastes as dangerous as he looks.
Matteo turns at the sound of my sharply indrawn breath, his storm-gray eyes finding mine across the room, and the slow smile that spreads across his face is absolutely predatory.
"Good morning, principessa," he says, making no move to cover himself. "Sleep well?"
I try to look away, try to summon some shred of dignity or outrage, but my treacherous eyes keep returning to him. To the way water droplets cling to his chest, to the confident way he moves, to details I shouldn't be noticing.
"This is..." I start, then stop, my voice failing me completely.
"This is what?" He reaches for a pair of boxers from his dresser, but he's taking his time about it, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
"Inappropriate," I manage, but the word comes out breathless and weak.
"Is it?" He pulls on the boxers with maddening slowness. "This is my room, in my house. If anyone should be uncomfortable, it's me."
"I didn't ask to be here."
"No," he agrees, selecting a shirt from his closet. "But you are here. And you're looking at me like..."
He trails off, but the implication hangs in the air between us.
"Like what?"
"Like you're curious about more than just the view."
The observation hits because it's absolutely true. I am curious. Desperately, dangerously curious about things I've never wanted to explore before.
"I'm not," I lie, but my voice shakes.
"Aren't you?" He approaches the bed slowly, a hunter stalking prey. "There's nothing wrong with attraction, Alessia. It's perfectly natural."
"You're delusional."
"Perhaps." He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that I can smell his soap, his skin, the indefinable scent that's purely him. "But your reactions suggest otherwise."
He reaches out as if to touch my throat, and I lean back instinctively.
"Don't."
"Don't what? Don't notice the way you respond to me? Don't acknowledge what's happening?"
"Nothing is happening."
"Something is happening," he corrects gently. "The question is whether you're ready to admit it."
I stare at his hand, at the scarred knuckles and long fingers that I know are capable of incredible violence and unexpected gentleness. What would it feel like to have those hands on my skin? To be touched with desire?
The thought terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me.
"I'm not ready for anything," I say firmly, my voice not betraying me. Thank God!
"No?" He leans closer, and I can see the flecks in his eyes, can feel his breath against my lips. "Then why are you leaning toward me?"
I realize with shock that I am leaning toward him, drawn by forces I don't understand and can't control. His eyes drop to my lips, and I know he's going to kiss me, know that I'm going to let him, know that crossing this line will change everything between us.
A sharp knock at the door breaks the spell.
We spring apart, the moment shattered by reality. Matteo's expression shifts from heated interest to cold authority in seconds.
"Don Romano?" A male voice calls through the door. "I apologize for the interruption, but you asked to be informed immediately when—"
"Five minutes," Matteo calls back, his voice deadly calm.
He finishes dressing, then pauses at the foot of the bed where I'm sitting up among the tangled sheets.
"We'll finish this conversation later," he says, pulling on his shirt.
"There's nothing to finish," I say, trying to rebuild my defenses.
"Isn't there?" He pauses in buttoning his shirt, those eyes finding mine. "You can lie to yourself all you want, Alessia."
He starts to turn toward the door, then stops. From the corner of my eye, I see his hand moving—fast, decisive, coming in my direction.
My body reacts before my mind can process the movement. I flinch away with violent instinctive fear, my shoulders hunching protectively, my breath coming in short gasps as muscle memory overrides rational thought.
Matteo freezes, his hand suspended in the air between us. I realize with burning shame that he was only reaching for his watch on the nightstand beside the bed.
But the damage is done. His expression shifts to something dark and dangerous as he processes my reaction.
"Have you been hit before?" he asks, his voice deadly quiet.
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications I'm not ready to face. But I can see in his eyes that he already knows the answer, that my reaction has told him everything he needs to know about the kind of marriage I endured.
I open my mouth to lie, to deflect, to do anything but confirm what he's already figured out.
But no words come.