Chapter 31 #2
Laughter drifts down the hall from an open door—bright, careless, alive. Life keeps spinning without me.
A world I’ll never fit inside.
I squeeze my ribs, trying to hold myself together before the crack spreads too far.
"Just a little longer," I whisper into the dark. "Keep breathing."
For him. For me.
For the war already bleeding through both our veins.
The night air scrapes over my skin cold, biting, alive.
I perch on the ledge, knees drawn tight, the cliff yawning open beneath me like a dark mouth.
The lighthouse sweeps its light over the waves, steady as a heartbeat I try to match.
When the rooftop door creaks, I don’t turn. I already know it’s him.
Matteo moves toward me, slow, deliberate, the scent of rain and smoke trailing him.
He lowers himself beside me close enough to feel, but not to touch. Silence settles between us, thick as fog.
Only the wind speaks, humming through the stone and carrying salt to our lips.
I watch him through my lashes. His cigarette burns low between his fingers, smoke curling around knuckles split and raw.
Blood darkens the edges. He doesn’t flinch.
My chest tightens.
"Your hand," I whisper, voice nearly lost to the wind.
He flexes his fingers once and shrugs. "It’s nothing."
I know it’s a lie, but I let it go. "How was your weekend?"
He exhales, the smoke drifting toward the stars before he answers.
"My grandfather surprised me," he says at last, voice rough. "My father hasn’t spoken to me since Saturday morning."
The words hit me hard. "You told them?"
"I had to." His tone sharpens. "You're not just some secret I can tuck into a dark corner, Aoife." The sound of my name in his voice makes my stomach twist.
"And your father?" I ask quietly.
His jaw tightens, muscle ticking. "He looked at me like I spat on our blood." He flicks the cigarette, watching the ember die. "Like I betrayed everything we are."
There’s nothing I can say to that. His pain sits heavy between us. So, I turn toward him, finding his eyes.
"You didn’t betray them," I say. "You chose yourself."
He doesn’t look at me right away. When he does, the mask slips.
This isn’t the ruthless Matteo everyone fears, it’s the boy underneath, raw and stripped bare.
"And you?" he asks, voice low. "How was your weekend, little lamb?"
He’s deflecting, trying to pull me from what’s tearing him apart. It’s what he does when he loses weight and gets too heavy.
"They talked about honeymoons like they were discussing the weather," I say. "As if choosing the right island could make me forget I’m being sold."
My fingers twist the loose thread on my jeans until it bites into my skin. "My uncle told me not to fuck it up. My father just watched, like I’m already dead."
Matteo’s throat works. The sound he makes isn’t a word.
It’s a growl, low, dangerous, animal.
The storm above us stills, the lighthouse casting its slow pulse across the water like a heartbeat against the dark.
Without thinking, I reach for him. My fingers trace the split skin across his knuckles. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even breathe.
"You’re bleeding," I whisper.
His voice drops low, rough as gravel. "So are you. Just not where anyone can see." The words tilt the world beneath me.
Everything slows, the sea, the wind, even my pulse.
Two broken things, balanced on the edge of a cliff, pretending they aren’t already falling.
My hand slips into his. He squeezes once—tight, sure, alive.
Neither of us speaks again.
The waves pound below, the storm rolling somewhere beyond the horizon.
Up here, in the broken dark, we build something small and dangerous something no one can touch. If they try, I’ll burn for it.
Matteo’s thumb moves over the back of my hand, slow, distracted. The touch doesn’t comfort me.
For a long while we sit like that, breathing the salt and storm into our lungs. Then he shifts, folds me closer; his voice drops so low only the night and I can catch it.
“Next weekend,” he says. “We need a way for you to come home with me.”
I freeze.
Everything in me scrambles for the exits.
No, my family would kill me in a heartbeat.
No, if they find out, it won’t be fury alone. It would be blood.
I pull back a fraction, and the panic rises, bitter as bile. “My family—” I begin.
“I know,” Matteo cuts in, soft but fierce. His palm cups my jaw; his thumb brushes beneath my eye as if he can swipe away the fear. “I’m not stupid, little lamb. I’m working on it. My grandfather wants you there.”
I inhale, the breath ragged.
“Meeting your family…” My voice breaks. “If they find out—if Conor finds out—”
His fingers thread into the nape of my neck and hold me steady.
“Listen to me.” His forehead presses to mine, solid and immovable. “You’re safe with me. I won’t let anyone touch you. I’ll figure it out.”
“You promise?” My voice comes out thin, barely more than breath.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. “I swear it.” The words are iron. “I’ll burn this place to ash before I let them touch you.”
The air leaves my chest. There’s so much he doesn’t know, so much waiting in the dark, but when he reaches for me again, I let him. His arms fold around me, tight, sheltering. His heartbeat thunders through his ribs, drowning out the sea.
“I trust you,” I whisper into his throat.
His hold hardens and for one fragile second, I believe him. I believe we can outrun every devil hunting us.
Even though I know better.
I lean back slightly, his hands still locked around me like armor I don’t deserve.
“There’s something else,” I breathe, voice lost to the crash below.
Matteo stills. “What?” His tone sharpens, low, protective, dangerous.
“I’ve been getting messages,” I say. “Anonymous. No name, no number. They vanish after I read them.”
His body tenses under my palms. “What kind of messages, Aoife?”
“Warnings,” I say, the word sticking in my throat. “About Blackstone. About me being watched. They say danger’s coming. They said I can’t trust them, but I can trust him.” I pause. “Do they mean you or Conor?”
He goes silent. Then his hand slides to the back of my neck, his forehead pressing hard against mine.
“You should’ve told me,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “You don’t keep things like that to yourself.”
“I didn’t know if it was real,” I whisper. “Or if it was another game.”
His thumb drags across my jaw. “Everything at Blackstone’s a game,” he says. “But this? You don’t play alone anymore, little lamb.” Something in me cracks. I don’t realize I’m shaking until he pulls me closer.
“We’ll find out who’s behind it,” he says. “And when we do, I’ll end them.” A breath shudders out of me.
“I trust you,” I whisper again, because I need him to hear it.
He looks down, eyes fierce and unblinking, devotion burning under the violence, then, without warning, he leans in and presses a slow kiss to the crown of my head.
Not hunger. Not claim.
Faith.
“I’ve got you, little lamb,” he murmurs.
And for the first time, with the storm clawing the sky apart around us, I believe him.
He holds me tighter, his chest rising against my cheek, his heart pounding like war drums. His fingers slide through my hair, slow, soothing. I breathe him in smoke, salt and rain.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispers. “You hear me?”
I nod. It isn’t enough.
He bends lower, his breath hot against my scalp, and presses another kiss there.
Slower. Firmer. A vow.
“You’re mine now.”
The tears sting, but I refuse to let them fall. I only want to stay here, in his arms, a little longer.
Eventually, he exhales and tips my chin up. “You should go,” he says softly. “Before someone sees.”
I nod again. The night outside feels colder than the sea.
Neither of us moves.
His thumb drifts across my bottom lip once before he lets go. “Go, little lamb.”
I turn into the wind, slipping into the dark.
Every inch of me still burns where he touched. Every piece of me already aches for him.
When it does, I’ll stand beside him.
Always.