Chapter 43
Raven
Ihuff with annoyance after checking the clock on my phone. It’s after three in the morning and I still can’t sleep.
It’s been four days since we killed Finn—no, Salvador. No, Finn. That’s the name I knew him by. Then again, as it turned out, I didn’t know him at all.
Four days of doctors, bandages, Piper texting constantly to tell me I’ll be fine. She’s probably right, and she’s sweet for sticking by me. Hell, for killing for me. That’s something I never expected. But I don’t want to hear it.
Four days of Matteo’s watchful eye and gentle hands and me soaking it all up. He doesn’t say much, and I think I love that the most. He lets me be all while he’s right by my side.
My wrists throb beneath fresh gauze, a constant reminder that fine is a lie we tell ourselves when the alternative is falling apart. And I am not falling apart. I am not. Gah, my thoughts are so scattered it’s no wonder I can’t sleep.
Matteo sleeps beside me. His bruised face looks so at ease when he’s like this. We’re both naked, and he has one arm thrown across my waist, possessive even in sleep.
And then I hear it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
My heart stutters, then races. It can’t be real. It’s just my imagination. Just my brain playing tricks.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
But it doesn’t stop. The sound penetrates the darkness, echoing inside my skull like a hammer on bone. Each splash of water transports me back to that room. That fucking room with its concrete walls and Adam’s body and the puddle of his blood spreading across the floor.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I’m back there, handcuffed to the metal table, skin raw and bleeding.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
With Adam’s sightless eyes staring at me, the perfect hole in his forehead weeping dark blood.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
My breath comes faster. Too fast. My skin prickles with phantom cold, and sweat breaks out along my hairline. I need to make it stop. Now. Before the memories swallow me whole.
I push Matteo’s arm off me, careful not to wake him. He’s barely been sleeping since we got back, instead spending every night awake with me. But tonight I had had enough and basically demanded he at least try to sleep.
As quietly as possible, I slide from beneath the covers, my feet hitting the floor with a soft thud that sounds impossibly loud in the silence.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Following the sound like it’s a beacon, I move toward the en-suite bathroom. I don’t turn on the light—I can navigate this space blindfolded by now, and somehow the darkness feels safer. Like if I can’t see the memories, they might not see me.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It’s coming from the massive walk-in shower. I reach inside, my hand fumbling along the wall for the faucet. I twist it, expecting the sound to stop. It doesn’t.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water still leaks from the showerhead, each droplet a tiny bomb exploding in my consciousness. My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t wake Matteo. My lungs constrict, the air suddenly too thick to breathe properly.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. The bathroom walls seem to shift and morph in the darkness, concrete replacing marble, blood replacing tile. I fumble for the light switch, desperate to banish the shadows.
Harsh fluorescents flood the space, momentarily blinding me. I blink against the assault, and for a second, I could swear I see Adam’s body reflected in the mirror behind me.
I whirl around. Nothing. No one. Just the empty bathroom and me, naked, wild-eyed, and trembling. Refusing to be nude while I battle my mental demons, I find an oversized t-shirt that belongs to Matteo and put it on.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Stop,” I whisper, the word scraping my throat like sandpaper.
I need tools. Something to tighten the fixture, to make the fucking dripping stop before I completely lose my shit. I drop to my knees, yanking open the cabinet beneath the sink. There must be something.
My hands shake so badly I can barely grip anything. Bottles of cleaner topple over. A hair dryer clatters against the cabinet door. I push them aside, searching, frantic now. There… a small toolkit I don’t hesitate to grab.
I drag it to the shower, spilling wrenches and screwdrivers across the tile in my haste. The splint on my wrist makes everything harder, more awkward. I grab the biggest wrench, not even sure if it’s the right tool, and climb into the shower.
“What are you doing?”
The voice barely penetrates my thoughts. It doesn’t matter. I’m not answering ghost Adam, and I just know he’s the one who asked me a question.
“We’re not doing this anymore,” I growl, ignoring my thoughts about ignoring him. “No more talking, Adam. You’re dead and I’m free.”
Water drips onto my face as I reach up, trying to tighten the showerhead. My hands won’t stop shaking. The wrench slips from my sweaty grip, clanging against the tile with a sound like a gunshot.
I flinch, expecting Finn to appear, gun in hand. Sweat or tears—I don’t know which—stream down my face as I retrieve the wrench. I can do this. I can make it stop. I just need to focus.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” I mutter, the words falling from my lips without conscious thought.
I attack the pipe connecting the showerhead with mindless desperation, twisting the wrench with all my strength. Something gives way with a metallic groan, and suddenly water erupts from the connection point, spraying in all directions with shocking force.
“No, no, no,” I cry, backpedaling out of the shower.
Water gushes from the broken pipe, splattering against the glass enclosure and spilling onto the floor. I lunge for the main faucet, twisting it frantically, but it only makes the spray worse.
The bathroom fills with the roar of rushing water, drowning out even the sound of my own panicked breathing.
I drop the wrench and scramble for the door, intending to wake Matteo, but he’s already there. He fills the frame, his tall body silhouetted against the darkness of the bedroom beyond. For one terrifying heartbeat, I see Finn instead—gun raised, eyes cold.
“Little Thief,” he murmurs. “What are you doing?”
Okay, definitely not Finn. This is Matteo. Matty. My Firestarter.
When did he come in? Why haven’t I noticed him until now? Was he the one asking me what I was doing, and not ghost Adam as I thought?
“Are you really here?” I ask, not sure I believe that any of this is real.
My chest heaves with panicky breaths that don’t seem to deliver any oxygen. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. I’m drowning—not in the water flooding the bathroom, but in memories.
“I’m here, Raven,” Matteo says.
When he reaches for me, I stumble backward. The sudden movement makes my foot slip on the wet floor, and I fall. But Matteo reaches me before I crash to the floor. His strong arms envelop me, lifting me up and holding me so my head rests against his chest.
My body shakes with the force of contained sobs that feel too big to release. If I start crying now, I might never stop.
The roaring in my ears could be the water or my own blood. I can’t tell anymore. I rock slightly, arms wrapped around Matteo’s neck.
“I’m safe,” I whisper, trying to convince myself. “I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe.”
“You’re safe,” he confirms as he presses a kiss to my forehead.
But the words are hollow, meaningless. Because I feel like I’m still in that room, still waiting for the next horror, still counting drips to keep myself sane.
“Say it with me, Raven.” Matteo’s deep voice somehow cuts through the chaos inside my head. “Repeat after me. I’m safe.”
“I’m s-safe,” I stammer.
“Nothing will ever happen to me again,” he continues.
“N-nothing will ever happen…” I try to finish the sentence, but all that comes out is a strangled sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob.
Matteo doesn’t wait for words. He moves with purpose, carrying me into the bedroom. When he’s placed me on the bed, he goes back to the bathroom. Through the open door, I watch him access a panel hidden behind a decorative piece of molding.
He pulls it open and twists something inside. The torrent from the broken pipe immediately slows to a trickle, then stops altogether.
“It worked,” I whisper. The sudden silence is almost as jarring as the noise was. All I can hear now is the harsh rasp of my own breathing and the soft splash of water as Matteo turns back toward me. “The drip stopped.”
I should have known this would be a group effort. Not me alone, not Matteo by himself. But together we stopped the motherfucking drip, drip, drip.
When he returns, he’s carrying some fluffy towels. Without hesitation, he sits beside me on the bed, one hand reaching out to gently tilt my chin up. I flinch at the touch—a reflex I hate myself for immediately.
Matteo doesn’t react to the flinch except to slow his movements, making each one deliberate and telegraphed. His fingers are warm against my ice-cold skin as they guide my face up until I’m looking at him.
His expression is something I’ve never seen before—the hard edges softened, the perpetual danger banked like embers in winter. “I’m here, Little Thief,” he whispers.
After removing the wet t-shirt from me, he wraps one towel around my shoulders, using the corners to dab at my wet face. The soft cloth against my skin feels impossibly good, the simple touch more grounding than anything else could be right now.
“I broke your shower,” I manage to say, my voice thin and tremulous.
“I don’t care about the shower.” His hand slides into my wet hair, cradling the back of my head. “I care about you.”
Something inside me cracks at those simple words—a hairline fracture in the dam I’ve built to hold back the tide of terror and grief. I’ve been so focused on being fine, on proving that I’m not broken by what happened, that I haven’t allowed myself to feel any of it.
“I was so scared,” I whisper, the confession painful in its inadequacy. How can those small words possibly encompass the horror of those hours that I know now was a little less than twenty-four hours?
But Matteo doesn’t need more words. He pulls me against his chest, his arms forming a protective cage around my body. “I know.”
“I thought I’d never see you again.” My voice breaks. “I thought he was going to kill me, and you’d never even know where to find my body.”
“I would have found you.” His voice is soft but absolute in its certainty. “I would have burned down the entire fucking world to find you.”
And that’s all it takes. The dam breaks, and everything I’ve been holding back for four days comes rushing out in a torrent more powerful than the water from the broken pipe.
Sobs tear from my throat, harsh and ugly and unstoppable. I clutch at his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin as if he might disappear if I don’t hold tight enough.
“I c-couldn’t do anything,” I gasp between sobs. “I was just… trapped there, watching Adam d-die, waiting for him to k-kill me too.”
Matteo’s arms tighten around me, one hand making slow, soothing circles on my back. He doesn’t offer empty reassurances or tell me it’s over now. He just holds me, solid and real and present, while I fall apart in a way I couldn’t allow myself to do in that basement.
“I keep h-hearing the dripping,” I confess, face pressed against his shoulder. “All the time. Even when there’s nothing dripping. It’s like… like I’m still there. Like part of me never left that room.”
“You’re here,” Matteo says, his lips brushing my temple. “You’re with me. You’re safe.”
“Am I?” The question slips out before I can stop it, raw with the doubt that’s been plaguing me since we got back. “What if I’m never safe again? What if I can’t stop being afraid?”
Matteo shifts, taking my face in both his hands. His mismatched gaze—one gray eye and one covered by the ever-present eyepatch—holds mine with an intensity that makes everything else fade away.
“Then you’re afraid,” he says simply. “And I’m still here. Fear doesn’t make you weak, Raven. It makes you human.”
Coming from anyone else, the words would sound like empty platitudes. But from Matteo—a man who’s faced his own demons, who carries the scars of his past both visible and hidden—they carry the weight of truth.
“I don’t want to be afraid,” I whisper.
“I know.” His thumbs brush away tears I didn’t even realize were still falling. “But you survived, Little Thief. You fought. You slayed the monster. The rest will come with time.”
He pulls me close again, and I let myself sink into his warmth. As I look toward the bathroom, I notice the water making its way in here.
“Matteo—” I begin, but he shushes me.
“I don’t care,” he simply says. “Nothing but you matters.”
My breathing gradually steadies against Matteo’s chest. “Don’t let go,” I murmur against his skin, the closest I can come right now to explaining what I need.
“I won’t,” he promises.