Chapter Six
Emery
There’s something in his gaze. Something that throws me off, something that makes my heart stutter in my chest, but I can’t place it.
I’m not sure what I’m seeing. It’s too… soft, too unexpected. His eyes, those same eyes that once held nothing but coldness and rage, are different now. I don’t know if it’s just a trick of the light, or if I’m imagining it, but I swear I see something else there.
Something that looks a lot like…tenderness?
I refuse to believe it.
But the way he’s looking at me, as if I’m not just a pawn or another name on a list… as if I matter, is messing with my head. It twists what I thought I understood, stirs up things I have no business wanting.
He swallows, before his eyes slip away from mine, as if he’s shaking off whatever the fuck that was.
Then, without looking at me, he grunts, “Do you want a drink? Because right now, I fucking need one.”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns and crosses the room, each movement is loaded with something he’s not saying.
I watch him go, trying to keep my thoughts in check, but it’s impossible. Because it’s not just the space he’s putting between us, it’s something deeper.
He heads straight for the bar, fingers ghosting over the bottles with a familiarity that says he’s done this more times than he’ll ever admit.
The soft clink of glass against glass cuts through as he pours the drink.
His eyes stay locked on the liquor, not on me, as if it’s the only thing worth his attention anymore.
I can’t stop watching him. The way his jaw tightens with every move, how the tension coils through his shoulders like it’s fused to his spine.
He’s doing exactly what I’ve been doing all night.
Trying to drown it. Whatever the fuck this is between us.
But with every sip, every breath, he’s just feeding it.
He’s giving it room to breathe, to burn, to bloom in the silence.
He fills the glass again and throws it back without a second thought. Then his fingers tighten around the bottle, knuckles white, jaw clenched, as he pours another, chasing the silence he can’t seem to find. The war inside him stays unnamed, but it’s there, clawing just beneath the surface.
He grabs the bottle of wine and uncorks it in one smooth motion. He pours with steady hands, the wine cascading into the glass, dark and smooth, swirling like blood in water.
Once the glass is full, he lifts it and walks toward me.
He stops in front of me, holds it out without a word, no gesture, no warmth. Just his eyes on mine. That calculating stare that strips me bare and leaves the air thick with something I can’t name.
“Drink,” he commands, his voice rough.
He doesn’t move. Just stands there, watching, eyes fixed on mine, unblinking, as if missing a moment would cost him something.
I raise the glass to my lips, and his stare hits me hard, a weight that’s impossible to ignore.
The wine slides over my tongue, smooth but burning hotter than it should under the weight of his stare. Every nerve lights up. It’s raw, exposed. His eyes stripping me down without ever touching me.
He watches me swallow, gaze fixed on my lips as if he’s cataloging every breath.
My lips part as I take another sip, and I catch it, that flicker in his eyes.
It’s dark and dangerous. His gaze drops, locked on my mouth like he’s already imagining his there, tasting the wine off my tongue.
It’s a silent kind of hunger, and it shouldn’t make my heart race, but it does. A twisted rush of want and warning, pulsing through me, a secret I don’t know how to bury.
I feel the heat of him, a storm rolling in fast, pressing against me without a single touch. I should turn away. I want to. Before this slips past the point of no return.
But I don’t.
There’s a war waging inside me. A brutal pull between shoving him away and dragging him closer. My chest tightens with every breath he takes. And somehow, in this unbearable silence, I can feel it. His heartbeat syncing with mine. A rhythm we shouldn’t share. But we do.
I see the tension coiled in his shoulders, the twitch of his fists like he’s fighting every instinct screaming at him to close the space between us.
He’s holding himself back, as though restraint is the only thing keeping him from unraveling.
And just when I think the silence might snap from the weight of it, he reaches out, takes my glass, and sets it down beside his.
Then he leans in. His face hovers inches from mine, breath warm and uneven, daring me to be the one to move first.
And for a second, I swear he’s going to kiss me. His breath ghosts across my skin. His lips are right there, so close it hurts, hovering just out of reach. The world narrows to this moment, to the space between us, to the single fucking breath where everything stops and is about to change.
His eyes flutter shut, breathing me in, the nearness too much, too close, and still not enough. His jaw clenches, and I see it, the way he’s losing himself in this, in me, in the unbearable pull that’s been simmering beneath the surface for too long.
It’s not just want. It’s surrender. Silent and shaking.
But then, just as quickly as he let himself feel it, he looks away.
His face hardens.
He takes a step back, and the space between us isn’t just physical anymore, it’s fucking miles.
When he speaks, his voice is cold enough to cut. But buried underneath is something darker. Something that sounds a hell of a lot like regret.
“Your room’s upstairs,” he says, his voice rough. He doesn’t look at me when he says it. “At the end of the hall.”
I watch him leave, his footsteps heavy as he moves up the steps, never once glancing my way. He’s distancing himself, pretending I’m not here. But the tension doesn’t fade, it lingers, thick in the air, a storm waiting to break.
I’m left here, alone with the thudding in my chest, the echo of his absence loud in the silence.
I want to call after him, ask him what the hell’s going on in that fucked-up head of his, but I don’t.
Because I know it won’t matter. He’s already closed off, the door already slammed between us the second he turned away.
Matteo’s footsteps fade into the distance and still I wait, my pulse roaring in my ears, the tension crawling beneath my skin, itching to burst out. I don’t move… just hold my breath, praying for the moment when the silence tells me he’s gone. That he's finally left me alone.
Seconds pass. Minutes, maybe. But when I finally convince myself he's not coming back anytime soon, I snap into motion.
My heart pounds in my chest as I race through the house, feet thudding against the polished floor, my head spinning with every turn, my mind screaming at me to find some way, any way, to get the hell out of here before he decides to drag me back into whatever fucking game he’s playing.
I get to the front door, my hand trembling as I reach for the keypad beside it. My fingers fumble for the code, his code. I don’t know it, but desperation drives my hands, pressing random digits in a frantic attempt to unlock it.
Beep. Nothing.
Fuck. I try again.
The cold metal of the keypad under my fingertips feels like a fucking mockery now.
Beep.
Another failure.
Frustration tears through me, burning fast and wild. The walls feel tighter with every breath, my hands trembling, clawing for a way out. The code’s nothing but a dead end. I’m locked in a goddamn box, no exit, no mercy.
I turn away from the door, my heart racing as I look for anything else. Anything that will give me even the slightest chance to break free. My eyes dart around the hallway, searching for an escape route. They land on the windows.
I race toward them, hoping, praying, there might be a way through. I reach the first one, pressing my hands against the glass, my palms cold against the smooth surface. I try to push it open, but there’s no handle. And it won’t even fucking budge.
I step back, a wave of panic rising in my chest as I move to the next window. The same thing, this floor-to-ceiling glass shit with no way out, no escape.
I’m trapped. The walls, the windows, everything is designed to keep me in. Every inch of this house is a fucking trap.
I take a step back, my throat tightening as the weight of it hits me. There’s no way out. No fucking way.
He's got some fucked-up security system, probably tracking every goddamn movement, every breath I take. I can almost feel him laughing, some sick amusement dancing in his eyes as he watches me scramble, watches me fall apart.
I’m the rat in his maze, stuck with no way out, no hope. And he’s sitting there, getting off on some twisted satisfaction as I fail, as I break down piece by piece. I’m just a game to him.
No one’s coming for me.
Not now.
Not ever.
The silence makes it real. The kind that doesn’t echo… it just settles. Like dust and the truth. I should’ve known better than to believe I was someone worth saving. But hope’s a cruel fucking thing.