Chapter 16 Isabella
Isabella
The nightmare tears through me like claws, dragging me down into darkness where faces blur and voices whisper secrets I can't understand.
I'm running through familiar hallways that stretch impossibly long, doors slamming shut behind me, the sound echoing like gunshots.
Chase's voice follows me, promising consequences I can't escape.
Then warmth surrounds me. Strong arms pulling me against a solid chest, a low voice murmuring words I can't make out. The panic dissolves, replaced by something safe and achingly familiar.
"Shh, bella."
The word floats through my consciousness, spoken in a language I don't understand but somehow recognize. I'm caught between sleep and waking, awareness drifting in and out like tide. A thumb strokes across my cheek, wiping away tears I didn't know I was crying.
More words in Italian, soft and soothing. I catch "sicura" and "qui" but the meaning slips away like water through my fingers. Still, the tone is enough. Gentle. Protective. A voice I know, even through the haze of half-sleep.
The sound of it tugs at something buried in my memory. This voice, these hands, this feeling of being held. It's familiar in a way that makes my chest tight.
"You're safe. I'm here."
Those words are in English, rough with sleep and something deeper.
I surface slowly, clinging to the safety of those arms, the steady rhythm of breathing beneath my cheek.
Reality filters back piece by piece. The scent of his cologne.
The warmth of his skin. The solid weight of his presence.
Morning light filters through the curtains, casting everything in gold.
The scent of expensive cologne and something uniquely masculine fills my lungs, and I realize where I am.
Matteo's chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, his heartbeat steady and strong. One arm is wrapped around my waist, holding me close, while his other hand rests in my hair. As if he's been stroking it while I slept.
As if he's been comforting me.
The realization hits me like cold water. I lie perfectly still, processing the fragments of memory floating through my mind. A gentle touch in the darkness. Soft words in Italian. The feeling of being held while dreams turned to nightmares.
He's done this before.
The memory surfaces unbidden—waking briefly in the middle of the night, strong arms around me, someone whispering that everything was okay.
I'd thought it was part of the dream, my subconscious creating the comfort I needed.
But the pillow beside me is slightly dented, and there's a glass of water on the nightstand that wasn't there when I went to sleep.
How many nights has he come to me? How many times has he held me through the terrors my mind creates?
I try to shift away without waking him, but his arm tightens around me immediately. His breathing changes, becomes more alert, and I realize he's been awake the whole time.
"You're okay," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep but his eyes sharp when they meet mine.
"You've been doing this." The words come out as a whisper. "Every night."
He doesn't deny it, doesn't try to make excuses. Just looks at me with those dark eyes that see too much. "You cry in your sleep."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would it have mattered?" His hand moves to cup my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. "You were suffering. I fixed it."
The simple words break something loose in my chest. He didn't do it for credit or gratitude. He did it because I was in pain, and he couldn't stand to watch.
"I don't understand you," I whisper.
"What's not to understand?" His thumb moves to trace my bottom lip, and I feel that familiar heat start to build. "You're mine. I take care of what's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should anger me. Should make me pull away, remind him that I belong to myself. Instead, it sends electricity through my veins, makes me press closer to the warmth of his body.
"You saw every broken part of me," I say, the admission scraped raw from my throat. "And you stayed."
"Of course I fucking stayed." The words are fierce, certain. "Did you think I'd run because you have bad dreams?"
Something cracks inside me at the rough honesty in his voice. All the walls I've built, all the careful distance I've maintained, crumbles in the face of his steady presence. He's seen me at my weakest, most vulnerable moments, and he didn't leave. Didn't use it against me.
He just held me.
"Matteo." His name comes out broken, needy.
"I know, bella." His forehead touches mine, and I can feel his breath warm against my lips. "I know."
This time, when he kisses me, there's no desperation. No claiming or conquest. Just tenderness that makes my chest ache and my eyes burn with unshed tears. His mouth moves against mine like he's memorizing the taste, the feel, the way I respond to his touch.
My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound deep in his throat that goes straight to my core.
The kiss deepens, becomes something hungry and desperate and real.
Not about power or control, but about connection.
About two people who've found something in each other they didn't know they were looking for.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His dark eyes search my face, looking for something I'm not sure I know how to give.
"Don't stop looking at me," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
His pupils dilate, and suddenly his mouth is on mine again, harder this time. More demanding. His hands slide down my body, and I arch into his touch like I'm starving for it.
"You don't even know what you do to me," he growls against my throat, his voice rough with want. "Walking around in my clothes, looking at me like you're not sure whether you want to run or let me fuck you senseless."
The crude words send heat straight to my core. My breath catches, and I feel my body respond in ways that should embarrass me but only make me want more.
"I know exactly what I want," I breathe.
"Yeah?" His hand slides lower, fingertips tracing patterns on my bare thigh. "Tell me."
"You." The word comes out as a moan when he bites down gently on my pulse point. "I want you."
The confession seems to break something in him.
His hands grow more demanding, more possessive, and suddenly I'm on my back with him hovering over me.
The morning light catches the gold in his hair, the sharp planes of his face, and he looks like something carved from marble.
Beautiful and dangerous and completely focused on me.
"Say it again," he commands, his voice dark with need.
"I want you," I repeat, my voice stronger now. More certain. "I want you to touch me."
"Where?" His fingers trail up my inner thigh, making me shiver. "Here?"
"Yes," I gasp.
"What about here?" His hand skims over my ribs, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through the thin fabric of my nightgown.
"Everywhere," I whisper. "I want you to touch me everywhere."
"Christ, Isabella." His mouth crashes against mine, and this time there's nothing gentle about it. It's claiming, possessive, the kiss of a man who's finally been given permission to take what he wants.
His hands find the hem of my nightgown, sliding it up my body with reverent care. When cool air hits my skin, I shiver, but not from cold. From the heat in his eyes as he looks at me, the way his breath catches when he sees me laid out beneath him.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands skimming over my ribs, my waist, the flare of my hips. "So fucking beautiful."
Every touch sends electricity through my veins, makes me arch toward him like a flower seeking sunlight. When his mouth follows the path of his hands, I'm lost, drowning in sensation and need and something that feels dangerously close to love.
His lips find my breast, tongue flicking against my nipple, and I cry out, my back arching off the bed. The sensation is overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.
"You like that?" he asks, his voice rough with satisfaction. "You like when I use my mouth on you?"
"Yes," I breathe, past the point of pride or denial.
"Good. Because I'm going to taste every inch of you." His mouth moves lower, pressing kisses to my stomach, my hip bones, the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. "I'm going to make you come on my tongue until you're shaking and begging for more."
The words should shock me, but instead they send liquid heat pooling between my legs. My hands fist in the sheets as he settles between my thighs, his breath warm against my most intimate places.
"Look at me," he says, his voice rough with command. "I want to see your face when I make you fall apart."
I meet his dark gaze, and the intensity there steals my breath. There's possessiveness, yes, but also something deeper. Something that makes my chest tight with emotion I don't know how to name.
When his mouth finally touches me, I'm gone. Lost in sensation so intense it borders on pain. He works me with his tongue, his lips, his teeth, until I'm writhing beneath him, desperate for release.
"That's it," he murmurs against my skin. "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I make you feel."
I'm beyond words, beyond thought, beyond anything but the pleasure building inside me like a wildfire. When he slides a finger inside me, then another, I shatter completely. The orgasm tears through me with an intensity that leaves me breathless, shaking, completely undone.
He doesn't stop. Doesn't give me time to recover. Instead, he works me through it, drawing out every last tremor until I'm boneless and gasping.
"You taste like heaven," he says, his voice rough with need as he kisses his way back up my body. "Sweet and perfect and mine."