Chapter 28 Isabella
Isabella
No nightmares. Again.
I sit up slowly, testing the absence of terror that used to greet me every morning.
For weeks now, since that first night Matteo claimed me completely, the dreams have been peaceful.
No more waking in cold sweats, no more Chase's voice echoing through my subconscious, no more fragments of my parents' death playing on repeat.
The realization hits me with stunning clarity. The nightmares that have haunted me since childhood didn't just fade. They stopped the moment I let myself belong to him. The moment I stopped fighting what I felt and let myself be held, protected, treasured.
I've been sleeping peacefully for weeks, but I've been too stubborn to acknowledge what that means.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching cold hardwood.
I'm wearing one of Matteo's white button-downs that I took from the mansion, the sleeves rolled up, the fabric hanging loose on my frame.
It still smells like him. Expensive cologne and something clean and masculine that makes my chest tight with longing.
When did his scent become home to me?
I walk to the window overlooking the city. Manhattan spreads below, glittering with life even at this hour. Traffic moves through the streets in distant patterns, people living their lives, making choices, taking chances.
While I've been hiding in my apartment for three days, trying to convince myself I need space to think.
What is there to think about? Chase is dead. The Callahan organization is mine to rebuild how I choose. The Rosettis have accepted me as family, not as a trophy or a weakness, but as someone who earned her place through blood and choice.
And Matteo is waiting.
The memory of our last conversation surfaces. His careful words about partnership, about building something together if I wanted it. The way he didn't push, didn't demand, just told me he'd wait for my decision. The patience in his eyes that somehow hurt more than any demand would have.
He's been waiting for me to choose him. Not just accept him or surrender to him, but actively choose him. Choose us.
I think about the woman I was before the kidnapping.
Poised. Controlled. So afraid of wanting anything that I convinced myself I was strong.
But that woman lived in constant terror, panic attacks when Chase raised his voice, nightmares every night, a life so carefully controlled it wasn't really living at all.
The Rosettis haven't crushed my identity. They've given me permission to become who I always was underneath the fear.
And I've been wasting time.
I'm moving before I fully realize it, grabbing my keys from the kitchen counter, slipping my bare feet into the first shoes I find. I don't stop to get dressed, don't pause to put on makeup or fix my hair.
At my front door, I pause with my hand on the handle. What am I doing? Racing across the city at three in the morning in pajamas to tell a man I love him? The old Isabella would have called this reckless. Impulsive.
But the old Isabella lived in fear.
I turn the handle and step into the hallway. I'm wearing his shirt and sleep shorts and nothing else, and for once, I don't care how I look.
The elevator takes forever. The parking garage is cold against my skin. My hands shake as I start the engine, but it's not fear. It's anticipation. Need. The desperate urgency of someone who's finally stopped lying to herself.
The city blurs past as I drive through empty streets, running red lights and breaking speed limits. The radio plays something soft and meaningless that I barely hear over the sound of my heart hammering. Each mile feels like coming back to life, like blood returning to numb limbs.
I love him. I've loved him since that first night he held me through a nightmare. I've loved him through every moment of stubborn resistance, every attempt to convince myself this was about survival instead of choice.
And I'm done pretending otherwise.
The Rosetti mansion looms ahead, all stone and security and quiet wealth. The guards recognize my car, wave me through without question. My bare legs shake as I walk up the steps, the marble cold beneath my feet.
The house is silent, everyone asleep except the security that moves like shadows through the halls. I pad through familiar corridors, past closed doors and family portraits, my heart racing with each step.
Toward the man who's been patient enough to let me find my way back to him.
His door is partially open, spilling soft light into the hallway. I pause at the threshold, my hand on the cool wood, and watch him through the gap.
Matteo sits on the edge of his king-sized bed, head in his hands, shoulders tense with exhaustion or stress or both.
He's shirtless, wearing only black drawstring pants that sit low on his hips.
The bedside lamp casts gold across the lean muscle of his back, highlighting old scars and new tension.
His auburn hair is disheveled, wild with exhaustion.
He looks like he's been waiting for hours. Days. Like patience is costing him everything.
He looks up as I push the door open, and our eyes meet across the space between us. Those golden eyes that have seen me at my worst and somehow still look at me like I'm something worth treasuring.
For a moment, he just stares. Like he can't quite believe I'm real. Like he's been waiting so long he'd started to think I might never come.
"I love you."
The words fall into the silence between us, steady and sure. No trembling in my voice. No taking them back. Just the truth I've been hiding from for weeks.
His face transforms. Shock gives way to relief so profound it's almost painful to watch. He breathes my name like a prayer, like he's been holding his breath for days and can finally exhale.
He goes completely still, like he's afraid to breathe wrong and shatter the moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough with disbelief and careful hope.
"You love me?"
"I'm done pretending I don't." I step into his room, closing the door behind me with a soft click. "I drove here at three in the morning in my pajamas because I couldn't wait another second to tell you."
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes stay serious. "Isabella."
"I choose you." I move closer, drawn by the heat in his gaze. "I choose this. I choose us. I'm tired of being afraid of what I want."
He stands slowly, moving like I'm something fragile that might bolt if he moves too fast. The lamplight turns his skin to gold, emphasizes every line of muscle across his chest and abs. He's beautiful and dangerous and mine.
"Are you sure?" His voice is careful, controlled. "Because once you say it again, once we cross this line completely—"
"I'm yours." I close the distance between us, my hands settling on his chest. His skin is warm, solid, real beneath my palms. "I've been yours since that first night. I was just too stubborn to admit it."
The vulnerability of the confession hits me suddenly. Here I am, half-dressed in his bedroom, my heart completely exposed. The old me would have run. Would have found some way to take the words back, to protect herself.
But his hands frame my face like I'm something precious, and I see nothing but reverence in his eyes.
His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones. "Say it again."
"I love you." The words come easier now, like something unlocked inside my chest. "I love your patience. I love your violence. I love the way you make me feel safe and wild at the same time."
Something breaks in his expression. Relief. Want. Possession. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head back as he leans down.
"Christ, Isabella. I've been going insane waiting for you to come back to me."
"Well, I'm here now." I press closer, feeling him harden against my hip. "What are you going to do about it?"
The question transforms him. The careful, patient man disappears, replaced by the predator I first glimpsed in his car. His mouth crashes against mine, hot and demanding and completely unrestrained. The kiss tastes like possession and promise and finally coming home.
I arch against him, my body singing with relief and want and the pure joy of not having to hold back anymore. His hands move down my body, fingers tracing the hem of his shirt where it hits my thighs.
"This fucking shirt," he growls against my lips. "Do you know what it does to me, seeing you in my clothes?"
"Show me." The words are breathless with need.
His hands fist in the white cotton, and for a moment I think he's going to tear it off me. Instead, he starts working the buttons with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine.
"I've been dreaming about this," he murmurs, parting the fabric to reveal my skin. "About having you in my bed, completely mine, no walls between us."
The shirt falls away, leaving me in just sleep shorts and lace panties. His gaze moves over me like a physical touch, hungry and reverent.
"Beautiful," he breathes, hands skimming up my sides. "So fucking beautiful."
I reach for the drawstring of his pants, but he catches my hands, bringing them to his lips to press kisses to my palms.
"Not yet," he says, voice rough with restraint. "I want to taste you first. Want to make you come on my tongue before I fuck you."
The crude words send heat straight to my core. "Matteo."
"Get on the bed," he commands, and the authority in his voice makes me shiver. "Lose the shorts."
I back toward his bed, hooking my thumbs in the waistband and sliding them down my legs. His eyes track every movement, dark with hunger. When I settle on the black silk sheets wearing nothing but lace panties, he makes a sound low in his throat.
"Spread your legs for me, bella."
I obey, shameless in my need. He moves between my thighs like a man worshipping at an altar, hands sliding up my legs with reverent touch.
"These panties," he murmurs, tracing the lace edge with one finger. "Did you wear them for me?"