Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Alessia
The estate doors slam open, and the sound echoes through the marble foyer like a gunshot. I'm halfway across the room before I know it, instinctively drawn to the commotion. Isabella rises from the sofa beside me, one hand flying to her mouth.
Matteo stands in the doorway, flanked by Enzo and Rafael, and something is wrong. Very wrong. His jacket hangs open, shirt dark with blood. The metallic scent hits me half a second later, mixed with gunpowder and smoke, clinging to him like a second skin and I feel a wave of nausea come over me.
His sleeve is soaked through. Red spreading down his forearm, dripping onto white marble.
My throat closes and I feel my worry overpowering my anger that he went to Emilio. And yet, he went without telling me, and now he's bleeding in his own foyer, and the fury surges through my chest again and burns along with the fear I didn’t expect.
He walks like he's not wounded at all, like the blood staining his clothes is someone else's problem. But I see the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing comes too controlled, too measured and I’m sure he’s in more pain than he’ll ever show.
Our eyes meet across the foyer. His unreadable, locked on mine with an intensity that makes my pulse hammer. I can see the second he realizes that I know what’s happened.
I move before I can think better of it. My heels click sharp against marble as I close the distance between us, silk blouse clinging to my skin in the humid air. Behind me, I hear Isabella's sharp intake of breath, but I don't stop.
"You went to him." The words tear out of me, low and shaking with rage I can't contain. "You went to Emilio and didn't tell me."
His expression doesn't change. He shrugs out of his jacket—winces, just barely, as the fabric pulls at his wounded arm—and his voice comes out flat. Sharp. "Not your concern."
Not my concern. Something in me snaps.
My palm connects with his chest before I realize I've moved. The impact jars up my arm, and he doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. Just stares down at me with that infuriating calm while my hand throbs where I struck him.
"Not my concern?" My voice cracks, raw and ragged. "My life is the pawn on his table. My fate is what you were negotiating—and you think I don't deserve to know? What if you were killed, Matteo?"
I raise my hand to hit him again—I need to make him feel something, need him to stop looking at me like I'm a problem to be managed—but his hands shoot out faster than I can track. He catches my wrists, grip iron-hard, and suddenly I'm being dragged.
He hauls me through the corridor toward the room, his hand bruising on my wrist. When we reach the door, he spins me around and slams me against the carved oak. The impact knocks the air from my lungs.
His body cages me against the door, heat rolling off him in waves. Blood and smoke and antiseptic—I can smell it all, taste the violence that clings to him like a second skin.
"Careful, principessa." His voice drops low, dangerous, vibrating through my bones. "Push me again, and I'll remind you exactly who owns what."
My chest heaves against his, each breath dragging in his scent. I should be terrified. I am terrified, even if it is for his life mostly. But my pulse also hammers in my throat for reasons that have nothing to do with fear, and I hate myself for it.
"What were you planning?" The words tear out of me, sharp and accusing. "Selling me back to him?"
"Never." His grip on my wrists tightens until I feel his pulse against mine, rapid and hard. "I never intended to give you back. Not to him. Not to anyone." His mouth drops to my ear, breath scalding against my skin. "Especially not now that the lie about the pregnancy is unraveling."
My pulse is hammering for a completely different reason now and I can barely hold myself from kissing him.
"You're mine," he growls, pressing his forehead to mine. There’s roughness in his voice and it makes something in my chest crack open. "And the sooner you learn your place, the better."
His hips grind against my thigh, and I feel the hard length of him through his trousers. Shame floods through me, because even now, with blood on his sleeve and lies between us, my body softens against him, betraying every protest my mind tries to form.
He tears me away from the door, and suddenly I'm falling. The mattress catches me, bouncing under my weight. For one heartbeat, he just stands there, chest heaving, eyes dark with something that makes my throat close.
Then he's on me.
His hands find my blouse and fabric tears—buttons scattering across hardwood with small, musical pings.
Cool air hits my skin, tightening my nipples instantly.
His gaze drops to my breasts, and heat floods my cheeks.
Being seen like this, exposed and wanting, feels more dangerous than anything else he's done to me.
His mouth closes over one breast, and a sound tears from my throat before I can stop it.
His tongue circles my nipple, then his teeth graze—not quite pain, but close enough to make lightning shoot straight between my thighs.
My hands reach for him instinctively, needing something to hold onto, but he catches my wrists and pins them above my head.
The position arches my back, presses my breasts higher toward his mouth. Helpless. On display.
"Let me go," I gasp, even as my hips lift toward him searching his heat.
"Do you really want me to let go, principessa?" His free hand slides down my body, pushing up my skirt. "Or are you lying to both of us?"
It looks like we both know I am a big fat liar because there’s nowhere I’d rather be right now.
His fingers hook into my panties and pull. The tear echoes obscenely in the quiet room. And then his hand is between my thighs, and I'm already wet, already aching, and there's no hiding it.
He pauses. His fingers slide through my wetness, and shame burns hot in my chest.
"Look at you," he murmurs, not mocking but something darker. Something reverent. "Your body knows what it wants, even when you won't admit it."
I turn my face away, unable to meet his eyes while his fingers are on me, knowing exactly how much I want this.
"Eyes on me, Alessia."
I force myself to look at him. His gaze holds mine as his fingers circle my clit, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. The sensation is electric, overwhelming, made worse by the way he watches me like he's cataloging every reaction.
"Tell me to stop," he says quietly. "Say the word, and I will."
The offer hangs between us, genuine and terrifying. Because we both know I won't. Can't.
"Don't stop," I whisper, and his expression shifts—satisfaction mixed with something that looks almost like relief.
His fingers move with purpose now, circling and pressing until I'm writhing beneath him, hips bucking against his hand. My wrists strain against his grip, wanting to touch him, to claim some measure of control, but he holds firm.
"Let go," he murmurs against my neck. "I've got you."
The words shouldn't work. Shouldn't make me feel safe when I'm pinned beneath a man who's kept me prisoner. But somehow they do, and the pressure coiling in my core winds tighter, tighter—
The orgasm crashes over me without warning. My back arches, a cry tearing from my throat as pleasure rips through me in waves that leave me shaking. He doesn't stop, drawing it out until I'm gasping, undone.
When I finally come back to myself, he's staring down at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch all over again.
He releases my wrists to reach for something on the nightstand. Silk—a strip of black fabric I recognize from before.
"I want to blindfold you," he says, voice rough.
Everything in me goes cold and still. My breath catches, and suddenly I'm back in Lorenzo's bedroom, his hand over my mouth, darkness pressing in while he—
"No." The word comes out sharp, panicked. My hands fly up instinctively, pushing at his chest. "No, I need to see you."
He freezes. Studies my face with those too-knowing eyes, and I hate that he can read the fear there, the memories I can't quite hide.
"Please," I whisper, hating how my voice shakes. "I need to see your face."
For a long moment, he's silent. Then he tosses the silk aside, and his hand cups my jaw with surprising gentleness.
"Then look at me," he says quietly. "And know that every second you see me, you'll know you're safe."
Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them. No one has ever—
His mouth moves lower, kissing down my neck, across my collarbone. When he reaches the scar on my ribs—the one Lorenzo left when he shoved me into the corner of a table—he pauses. His lips brush it, reverent and slow, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
"Perfect," he murmurs against my skin. "Every scar. Every mark."
I try to twist away, shame flooding hot through me. These aren't battle wounds to be proud of—they're evidence of how weak I was, how I couldn't protect myself.
But he holds me still, his mouth moving to the cigarette burn on my hip, the faint line across my shoulder blade where Lorenzo's ring caught me.
"Stop," I whisper, but it comes out broken.
"Never." His lips brush another scar, this one hidden along my inner thigh. "These prove you survived. That you're still here, still fighting."
A sob catches in my throat. I always try to hide these marks, cover them, pretend they don't exist. Having him worship them instead of recoil feels like being turned inside out.
His mouth moves lower, spreading my thighs, and I tense.
"Relax," he murmurs. "Let me take care of you."
Then his tongue finds me, and thought becomes impossible.
The sensation is overwhelming—wet heat and pressure in exactly the right place. My hands fly to his hair, not sure if I'm trying to push him away or pull him closer. He takes his time, licking and sucking with deliberate precision, learning what makes me gasp, what makes my thighs tremble.
When he thrusts his tongue inside me, I cry out, hips bucking against his mouth. It's too much, too intense, and I can feel the pressure building again impossibly fast.
"Matteo—" His name breaks on my lips. "I can't—"
"Yes, you can." The words vibrate against my sensitive flesh. "Give me another one."
His mouth seals over my clit, sucking hard, and the world shatters.
The orgasm tears through me stronger than the first, making my vision white out, my body convulse.
I'm dimly aware of screaming his name, of my nails digging into his scalp, but I can't stop, can't control the waves of pleasure that leave me shaking and gasping.
When I finally come back to myself, he's kissing his way back up my body. I taste myself on his lips when he captures my mouth—salt and musk. It should be degrading. Instead, it feels intimate.
He pulls back just enough to unfasten his belt. The clink of metal makes my pulse jump. His cock is thick and hard when he frees it, already glistening at the tip. Even after two orgasms, the sight of him makes heat coil low in my belly again.
He positions himself between my thighs, the head of him pressing against my entrance but not entering. Just there, making me feel the weight of him, the promise of fullness.
"Look at me," he commands softly.
I drag my gaze to his. His eyes hold mine, dark with desire but something else too—something that looks almost like tenderness.
He pushes inside slowly, so slowly I feel every inch of him stretching me.
My breath catches. It's too much, the fullness bordering on pain, but I don't want him to stop.
My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in as he sinks deeper, deeper, until he's buried completely and I can't breathe, can't think, can only feel.
"Breathe," he murmurs, staying perfectly still.
I drag in air, and my body adjusts around him. The sensation shifts from overwhelming to something else—perfect and complete, like two pieces fitting together.
He pulls back and thrusts again, finding a rhythm that makes my toes curl. Each stroke grinds against something deep inside that sends sparks through my entire nervous system. I arch beneath him, meeting each thrust, chasing the friction that's building toward something explosive.
"That's it," he groans. "Take what you need."
My nails rake down his back, hard enough to leave welts. The violence of it should shock me, but instead it feels right—marking him the way he's marking me, claiming ownership even as he claims me.
His hand slides between us, finding my clit, and I nearly sob from the intensity. I'm too sensitive, still trembling from the last orgasm, but he doesn't relent. Just works me with practiced precision while his hips drive forward relentlessly.
"You're mine," he rasps against my mouth. "Say it."
I shake my head, even as my body clenches around him, pulling him deeper. Admitting it feels like losing the last piece of myself.
"Say it, Alessia."
His thumb presses harder on my clit, and I shatter. The orgasm rips through me with brutal force, making me scream, making my body convulse around him. Through the chaos, I feel him find his own release, his groan ragged against my neck as he spills inside me.
"I'm yours," I sob, because it's true and terrifying and I can't hold it back anymore. "Yours, Matteo, I'm yours—"
We collapse together, sweat-slicked and trembling. His weight presses me into the mattress, grounding me when I feel like I might float apart. My chest heaves, trying to catch breath that won't come.
Slowly, his hand slides from between my legs to cup my cheek. The gentleness of it makes my eyes sting.
"Mine," he whispers, rough but certain.
I close my eyes, unable to look at him while admitting this. "Yours."
The word feels like surrender. Like the end of fighting.
And maybe, terrifyingly, that's exactly what it is.