Chapter 44
Raven
The living room air feels cool against my still-damp skin as Matteo carries me to the couch, his arms solid and sure beneath me. My body feels weightless in his grip, hollow and too heavy all at once—the aftermath of panic leaving me emptied out and refilled with exhaustion.
He lowers me onto the cushions with the same precision he uses to set explosives, like I’m something that could detonate if handled wrong. Maybe I am.
“Stay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead before straightening up. I nod, not trusting my voice yet. My throat feels raw from crying, from screaming at ghosts only I can see.
He walks back into the bedroom, and I listen to the soft pad of his bare feet against the hardwood. Is he checking the bathroom? Cleaning up the mess I made? Calling a plumber at stupid o’clock in the morning?
I curl my toes against the cool leather of the couch, trying to anchor myself in physical sensation rather than spinning into another spiral.
I’m so tired of being afraid. So tired of letting Finn win from beyond the grave. Even saying his name in my head feels dangerous, like summoning a demon. I pull the towel tighter around me, suddenly aware of how exposed I am, how vulnerable.
Not just physically—though that too—but emotionally. Matteo has seen me at my absolute worst now. Broken. Terrified. Unhinged.
And he didn’t run. Didn’t look at me with pity or disappointment. Just held me through it, solid as the concrete walls of his penthouse.
Minutes stretch before I hear his footsteps returning. I look up to find him watching me from the edge of the room, his expression unreadable in the dim dawn light.
A towel sits low on his hips, water still trailing down the hard planes of his chest, catching in the dark ink of his tattoos. It’s entirely unfair how delicious he looks without even trying. Even while bruised from his fight with Finn.
I squint as I notice his hand is closed around something I can’t quite make out. “What’s that?” I ask, my voice a sandpaper whisper.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he crosses to me with that predatory grace that never fails to make my breath catch. When he reaches the couch, he doesn’t sit beside me as I expect. He sinks to the floor between my legs, the position so deliberate it feels like déjà vu.
“Give me your foot,” he says, and the words strike a chord of memory so sharp it almost hurts.
I extend my right leg tentatively, and he cradles my ankle in one large hand. His palm is warm against my still-damp skin, fingers encircling the delicate bones with casual possession. Only then does he open his other hand to reveal what he’s been holding.
The pink marker. My pink permanent marker, with the telltale bite marks on the cap. The same marker he used weeks ago in my apartment.
“You brought it,” I whisper, staring at the marker like it’s some precious artifact.
“Of course I did.” He uncaps it with his teeth, his eyes never leaving mine. “It’s yours. And you’re mine.”
The simple possessiveness of the statement washes over me, soothing the jagged edges of my nerves better than any platitude could. This is Matteo—not trying to fix me or change me, but claiming me exactly as I am, broken pieces and all.
The first touch of the marker against my toenail sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with cold. Matteo works with methodical precision, his attention entirely focused on filling in each nail with even strokes of pink.
“I make a mess of everything,” I say, watching his hand move with hypnotic steadiness. “Your bathroom. Your floors. Your life.”
He doesn’t look up from his task, finishing one toe before moving to the next. “You make everything interesting.”
“Is that what we’re calling property damage these days?”
The corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile that makes my heart flip over. “I’ve burned down buildings for less entertaining reasons.”
I laugh, the sound startling me with its normalcy. It feels like the first real laugh I’ve had in days, maybe longer. Matteo glances up at the sound, his eye crinkling at the corner, something warm and possessive in his gaze.
“There she is,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking along the arch of my foot in a way that sends tiny sparks up my leg. “My Little Thief.”
The nickname wraps around me like a security blanket. I am his thief. After all, I stole his lighter and his heart when he wasn’t looking.
And this dangerous man—who paints my toes at four in the morning after I flood his bathroom, who holds me through panic attacks without making me feel weak for having them—is mine as well.
I watch him finish the last toe on my right foot before shifting to my left, his movements never losing their deliberate care. Each stroke of pink across my nail feels like he’s painting me back into myself, restoring the pieces that have somehow been misplaced.
“I meant it,” I say, the words slipping out before I can overthink them. “When I told you I love you. I do. So, so much, Matteo.”
His hand stills for just a moment, his eye lifting to meet mine. Something passes between us, electric and inevitable.
“I love you too, Little Thief.” His voice is low, rough at the edges. “More than I thought possible.”
The words unfold in my chest like flower petals opening toward the sun. I’ve heard them before, but they feel different now—weighted with everything we’ve survived together.
As soon as he finishes the last toe, he caps the marker with a decisive click that feels like punctuation to his declaration.
“Perfect,” he says, but he’s not looking at my toes anymore. He’s looking at me with a hunger that has nothing to do with my freshly painted nails and everything to do with reclaiming what we almost lost.
I stare at Matteo sitting between my legs, his work on my toes complete but the hunger in his eye just beginning. My body hums with a tension that has nothing to do with panic now—something warmer, deeper, more urgent.
“Are you going to suck them again?” I ask, the question barely above a whisper. My toes flex instinctively, freshly painted and suddenly hypersensitive at the memory of his mouth on them.
His grin unfurls slowly, wicked and predatory. Not the smile he shows anyone else. This one’s just for me, just as dangerous as the rest of him but tinged with something that makes my stomach drop in delicious anticipation.
“Is that what you want, Little Thief?” His voice is gravel and silk, his hands still framing my foot like it’s something precious.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak without begging outright. I’ve been stripped raw tonight—emotions flayed open, body wrung out—but this hunger between us remains, constant as gravity.
Matteo lifts my foot to his mouth, pressing his lips to the top in a kiss that seems almost reverent. His eye stays locked on mine as he turns his attention to my big toe, tongue flicking out to trace the edge where pink marker meets skin.
The sensation sends a jolt straight to my core, my breath catching audibly. His mouth opens, drawing my toe inside with deliberate slowness. And then… oh, God. His tongue curls around the digit with expert precision.
“Matteo,” I moan as the suction that follows makes my back arch.
I feel my body respond as if he’s touching me somewhere far more intimate. My pussy clenches around nothing, already wet and throbbing with want.
Matteo hums against my skin, the vibration traveling up my leg as he releases my toe with a soft pop. “Already so eager,” he murmurs, moving to the next toe. “So responsive for me.”
He takes his time, lavishing each toe with the same thorough attention, alternating between gentle suction and the firm press of his tongue. By the time he’s finished with my left foot and moves to the right, I’m squirming on the couch, the towel fallen open to expose me completely.
“Please,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m begging for yet.
His answer is to press an open-mouthed kiss to my ankle, then start a slow journey upward. “I’m going to taste every inch of you before I’m done,” he rasps against my calf.
My head falls back against the couch as his mouth travels higher, leaving a trail of heat up my leg. His hands follow, palms rough against my still-damp skin, fingers digging in just enough to make me feel owned. Claimed. Safe.
When he reaches my inner thigh, I let him pull me closer to the edge of the couch. Moving higher, his breath ghosts over my pussy, and I can’t help the way my hips lift toward his mouth. I’m beyond pride, beyond pretense—I need him with an urgency that borders on pain.
“Look at you,” Matteo says, his voice dropping lower. “So pretty and wet for me already.” His thumb traces the seam of my labia, barely parting them. “Is this what you need? My mouth on this sweet pussy? My tongue inside you?”
“Yes,” I manage, hands fisting the towel beneath me. “God, yes.”
He spreads me open with his thumbs, his eye darkening at what he finds. “Beautiful,” he breathes, just before his tongue flattens against my entrance and licks upward in one long, firm stroke.
I cry out, the sensation almost too intense after days of tension and hours of emotional upheaval. But Matteo doesn’t relent. His mouth seals over my clit, sucking gently while his tongue flicks rapidly against the swollen bundle of nerves.
One hand slides up to pin my hips in place when they try to buck against his face. “Stay still,” he orders against my flesh. “Take what I give you.”
I whimper in response, one hand flying to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer even as I try to obey. His answering growl vibrates against my clit, making my thighs tremble.
He slides two fingers inside me then, crooking them upward to find the spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. The dual assault of his mouth on my clit and his fingers pumping into me has me climbing toward orgasm fast.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, lips brushing my clit as he speaks. “Let me taste your cum on my tongue. Show me how much you need this.”