Chapter 12
Isabella
He's been gone for hours.
I stand at the kitchen window, watching the forest grow darker as evening settles over the trees.
Matteo left before dawn for his important business “meeting" in Manhattan, and the silence in the safehouse has grown heavier with each passing hour.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes nine times, marking another hour of waiting.
What happens if he doesn't come back?
The thought slides through my mind like ice water.
This place is beautiful, luxurious, stocked with everything I could need.
But it's also a cage. The windows only open three inches.
The doors are electronically locked. I don't even know exactly where we are, just somewhere upstate in the middle of nowhere.
If something happened to him, would I just... stay here? Wait until the food runs out? Until someone finally comes looking? Would his brothers even know where to find me, or would I become another mystery, another person who simply disappeared?
A smaller, more troubling thought whispers in the back of my mind: I hope he's okay.
I push that thought away, focusing on the practical concerns. Survival. Escape routes. Anything except the growing knot of worry in my chest.
The front door slams with enough force to rattle the windows, and I freeze. The sound echoes through the safehouse, sharp and angry, nothing like Matteo's usual controlled entrances. My coffee cup stops halfway to my lips, the liquid suddenly bitter on my tongue.
Heavy footsteps move through the downstairs hallway, uneven and dragging. I set the cup down with shaking hands, porcelain clinking against marble. The familiar rhythm of his walk is all wrong.
I find him in the living room, standing by the windows with his back to me. His white shirt is torn at the shoulder, dark stains spreading across the fabric. Blood. Fresh blood, still wet and gleaming under the overhead lights.
This is wrong. All wrong. Matteo Rosetti doesn't come home bleeding. He's the one who makes other people bleed, who walks away from violence untouched and smiling. He's smooth confidence and calculated charm, always perfectly put together, always in control.
Not this. Not wounded and swaying on his feet.
"What happened?" The words come out sharper than I intend.
He doesn't turn around. "Nothing that matters." But his voice is rougher than usual, strained. When he reaches for the whiskey decanter on the side table, I notice the way he moves like his entire left side is made of broken glass.
"You're bleeding."
"I'm fine." He pours amber liquid into a glass, the bottle neck clinking against crystal. His knuckles are split and swollen, dried blood crusting between his fingers. Deep scratches run along his forearm, parallel lines that look like claw marks.
I move closer, my bare feet silent against the hardwood. This close, I can see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he's holding himself together. The untouchable mask he always wears is cracking, revealing something raw underneath.
"Matteo."
"I said I'm fine." He tries to take a sip, but his hand shakes slightly. The glass wavers, whiskey sloshing against the sides.
That's when I see it. A gash along his ribs, visible through the torn shirt. Deep and jagged, like someone dragged a knife across his skin. Still bleeding, soaking through the white cotton in a spreading crimson stain.
"Sit down," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "I'll get the first aid kit."
"Don't need it."
"You're dripping blood on the floor." I gesture to the dark droplets scattered across the hardwood. "Sit. Now."
He turns to look at me, and I see the exhaustion in his green eyes. For a moment, he looks younger. Human in a way that makes my throat tight.
This is the first time I've seen him as anything other than the dangerous man who kidnapped me. This is the first time he looks... mortal.
"Bossy," he mutters, but he moves to the couch. Sits down heavily, like his body weighs too much.
I retrieve the medical kit from the bathroom, hands moving through the familiar motions. Chase always kept one stocked in every property, insisted I learn how to use it. The weight of the kit in my hands is familiar, comforting in a way that reminds me of skills I never wanted to need.
When I return to the living room, he's slumped against the couch cushions, eyes closed. The whiskey glass sits forgotten on the coffee table, and I can see the rise and fall of his chest, too quick and shallow. His face is pale under the tan, jaw clenched tight.
The untouchable playboy who charmed his way past my defenses, who always seems to know exactly what to say. Reduced to this. Bleeding and exhausted and trying not to show how much it hurts.
"Take off your shirt," I say, setting the kit on the table next to his glass.
His eyes open, finding mine. "Careful, bella. You keep talking like that, I might think you like me."
The joke falls flat. His usual smirk is strained, not quite reaching his eyes. Even hurt, he's still trying to be the smooth operator.
"The shirt needs to come off so I can see how bad it is."
He struggles with the buttons, fingers clumsy with pain and exhaustion. After watching him fumble with the third one, I step closer. "Let me."
My hands brush against his as I work the buttons free, and I feel the heat radiating from his skin.
Up close, I can see the bruises starting to bloom across his chest, dark purple marks that will be worse tomorrow.
The metallic scent of blood mixes with his cologne, something expensive and masculine that makes my stomach flutter despite everything.
The shirt falls away, and I suck in a sharp breath.
His torso is a map of violence. The gash along his ribs is worse than I thought, a jagged line that curves around his side, deep enough that I can see the white of bone beneath.
But it's not the only injury. Bruises cover his chest and shoulders, some fresh and red, others already turning purple.
Smaller cuts crisscross his arms, defensive wounds from blocking something sharp.
And underneath all the damage, he's... beautiful. Lean muscle and golden skin, broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist. The kind of body that belongs in marble, not sitting bloodied on a couch.
"Dear God," I whisper. "What did they do to you?"
"Nothing I didn't give back twice as hard." He watches me examine the wounds, green eyes tracking my every movement. "You don't have to do this, Isabella. I can handle it."
"Stop being stubborn." I open the kit, hands steady despite the way my heart is racing. "This is going to hurt."
"I've had worse."
I pour antiseptic onto a clean cloth, the sharp smell filling the air between us. "When?"
"What?"
"When have you had worse?" I press the cloth to the gash, and he hisses through his teeth. The muscles in his abdomen clench, and I can't help but notice the way they move under his skin. "Tell me something while I clean this."
For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then his voice comes out quiet, rougher than usual. "I broke my arm when I was ten. Didn't tell anyone for three days."
My hands pause in their work. "Three days?"
"My grandfather was staying with us, he had a nasty temper. Thought weakness was something you beat out of kids." He stares at the ceiling, not meeting my eyes. "I hid it until Sal found me crying in the bathroom. He carried me to the ER himself."
The cloth in my hand is already stained red. I rinse it in the bowl of water I've prepared, watching the clear liquid turn pink. "That's horrible."
"That was the day I knew who'd really protect me." His voice is distant, like he's talking about someone else. "Dad never asked questions. Just took care of it."
I work quietly, cleaning the wound with careful precision. The gash is deep but clean, no signs of infection. It'll need stitches, but he'll heal. My fingers move along his skin, wiping away blood and dirt, and I try to ignore the way his muscles tense under my touch.
He's completely still, letting me work. Trusting me with his pain in a way that feels intimate, more personal than anything we've shared before.
"You're good at this," he says finally, voice soft.
"Chase made sure I knew how to handle medical situations." I thread a needle, the familiar weight of it between my fingers. "He said you never knew when you'd need to patch someone up without questions."
"Smart man." But there's something dark in his voice when he says it. "Even if he's a bastard."
The needle slides through his skin, and he doesn't flinch. Just watches me work with those intense green eyes, like he's memorizing every detail. I can feel the heat of his gaze, the way it makes my skin warm and my hands slightly unsteady.
"Why didn't you call for help?" I ask as I make the second stitch. "Your brothers, I mean."
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. Then: "Because this was my mess to clean up."
"What happened?"
"Meeting went sideways. Someone decided to send a message." His hand moves to cover mine where it rests on his chest, fingers warm against my skin. "But I got the message across too."
I should pull away. Should maintain the distance I've been trying to rebuild. But something about seeing him like this, vulnerable and hurt, makes it impossible.
My palm is flat against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong despite everything. The skin under my hand is warm, smooth except for the raised lines of old scars. Evidence of a life lived dangerously, a body that's seen violence before.
"There," I say, tying off the last stitch. "Try not to rip these out."
"I'll do my best." He looks down at my handiwork, then back up at me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me." I start gathering the medical supplies, needing something to do with my hands. "I didn't do it for you."
"No? Then why?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I can't explain the way my chest tightened when I saw him bleeding, or the relief that flooded through me when I realized his injuries weren't life-threatening. Can't admit that somewhere between the kidnapping and now, something has shifted.
"Because I needed something to do with my hands," I say finally, the lie thin but necessary.
"Isabella." His voice is soft, careful. "Look at me."
I don't. Can't. Because if I look at him now, I'll see something in his eyes that I'm not ready to face.
"I should let you rest," I say instead, standing up too quickly. "You need to keep those stitches clean."
"Bella."
"I'm not someone," I say, the words coming out sharper than I intend. "I'm leverage, remember?"
He's quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with something I can't name. "Not tonight."
The words hit me harder than they should. I turn to face him, and the expression in his eyes makes my breath catch. There's something raw there, something that looks dangerously close to tenderness.
"I'm going to bed," I say, backing toward the stairs. "Try not to bleed on everything."
I escape to my room, closing the door behind me with shaking hands. My heart is racing, and I can still feel the warmth of his skin under my fingers, can still see the vulnerability in his eyes when he talked about his father.
This is dangerous. More dangerous than the kidnapping or the threats or the way he makes me feel when he looks at me like I'm something precious.
This is the kind of dangerous that comes from seeing past the surface, from understanding that the monster who took me is also the boy who hid his broken arm for three days.
I press my back against the door, listening to the silence from downstairs. Somewhere in the quiet safehouse, Matteo Rosetti is sitting alone with his wounds and his whiskey, and I'm hiding in my room because I'm terrified of what I might do if I stay.
Terrified of how much I wanted to take care of him.
Terrified of how right it felt to see him as something other than my captor.
But most terrifying of all: the way my body responded to touching him, to seeing him vulnerable and strong and beautiful all at once. The way something deep inside me whispered that this man, this dangerous, complicated man, might be worth the risk.
I'm not ready for that. I never will be.