Chapter 25 An Act
AN ACT
Caitríona
I wake to the thrum of my phone trying to crawl off the nightstand.
I gasp, my heart catapulting up my chest. For a second, I don’t know where I am.
The ceiling is too clean, and the air too still.
Then the safehouse snaps back into place: old brick, new locks, and a silence that feels like it’s suffocating.
Pushing myself up off the stiff mattress, I pick up my phone. The screen is a stack of notifications.
Donal (12 missed calls)
New messages flood in before I can swallow.
Donal: Answer your phone.
Donal: I found Sean.
Donal: He says you’re running. He says you were packing to bolt.
Donal: I don’t believe him. Tell me why, Cáit.
Donal: Where are you? I’ll come get you.
Donal: You’re not safe.
Donal: Tiernan is on a rampage. Doors are getting kicked in.
Donal: If you don’t call me back in five minutes heads will roll. Literally.
Donal: I won’t be able to stop him.
Donal: Call. Me. Now.
My thumb hovers over the call button. Love is a neat word until you measure it against men like Tiernan. I set the phone face down like it can’t ring if I don’t see it.
They can take care of themselves, I tell the ceiling. Da and Donal have been wading through blood since before I had any teeth. They don’t need me to hold their hands now. They’ll be fine. I need to take care of myself.
I finger the locket, warm and familiar, then press my palm over the orange blossom beneath my shirt. Livia. Just once, the way you test a wound to make sure it’s still there.
Hushed voices leak through the door. Low. Male. Matteo. And someone else.
What the hell?
I slip to the door and press my ear to the wood.
“—two blocks out. No uniforms.” Matteo. “If Ale asks, you never saw her. If anyone else asks, you never saw me.”
A reply I can’t make out through the door, and then him again.
“Yeah, I’ve got her here. She’s still sleeping. I’ll hold until you get—”
My chest ices over. I’ve got her here. I’ll hold until you get— Who? The Rossis? Geminis? The thought explodes through me so fast I almost laugh. Of course. Of course, the safe place comes with a lock.
I picture Alessandro walking through that door with the whole damned family in tow. I picture Donal on the other side of the river, and Tiernan licking his lips. I picture myself ground to paste between the two. My hand curls into a fist over the blossom until it hurts.
I need to move. I need to get past him. But he won’t let me.
A plan starts to form in my mind. It’s ugly but efficient, and it’ll force him to let me.
“Be smart,” Donal would say. “Use what you have.” I hate that the voice in my head is his.
I strip fast, black jeans kicked under the bed and boots tucked inside the duffel.
I keep the shirt, buttoning it to my collarbone to hide the ink and the ache underneath it.
The hem barely skims the tops of my thighs.
I consider the gun then leave it. I can’t miss at this range. Not if I use a different weapon.
I look at myself once in the mirror and don’t recognize the expression. Seduction as a blade.
When I open the door, the living room smells like coffee and fresh paint.
Matteo stands with his back to me, shoulder braced against the counter and phone to his ear.
His coat is off, sleeves shoved up his forearms, and I hate how I can’t look away for a second.
God, there’s something so sexy about a man’s forearms. Burying the completely inappropriate thought, I focus on the gun on the table within easy reach.
“I said an hour,” he mutters. “No, I’ll handle Ale.”
The name hits like a slap.
Matteo turns at the whisper of my bare feet on the floor. It takes a heartbeat for him to register what he’s seeing. Me in nothing but a shirt. He lowers the phone, and surprise wipes his face clean.
“Morning—”
I lean into the doorframe, all loose joints and a mouth that remembers exactly what he tastes like. “You’re loud,” I whisper around a yawn. “And I was trying to sleep.”
He swallows. “Sorry, I was checking in with the guys.” His eyes try to be polite, but they fail. They do a slow, helpless tour from my throat to my hem then my legs and circle back to my mouth like that’s safe.
Good.
Let him look. Let him forget he’s supposed to be careful with me.
I keep my posture lazy, but my mind is already moving, mapping the room the way I always do. The back door. The counter between us. His gun, holstered at his hip. The phone on the counter. The keys, near the bowl of fruit.
“Are we alone?” I ask, letting the words come out soft, almost shy.
“Yes.” A beat, his eyes flicking past me like he’s checking the room out of habit. “Why?”
I give him a slow smile and step closer, just enough to make the air change. “Just making sure.”
His gaze drops again, hunger and caution warring in it. “Cat…” It’s a warning. A plea. A reminder that whatever this is, it’s a bad idea.
I need him to stop thinking. I need him to be Matteo, the wicked devil, not Gemini.
I tilt my head, letting my hair fall over one shoulder. “You didn’t sleep,” I murmur, like I’m concerned. Like I’m sweet.
Like I don’t plan to cut and run the second he gives me a window.
“I’m fine.” But he’s too alert to be fine.
I take another step, slow, careful, and let my gaze slide over him like I’m deciding what I want. The bruising shadow under his eyes. The tension at his jaw. The faint smear of blood at his knuckle.
A male like him doesn’t get tired. He gets dangerous.
My pulse ticks faster anyway. Not because I’m scared. Because my body is an idiot.
I reach for the coffee mug on the counter, pick it up, then set it down again like I forgot why I wanted it.
Small distraction. Small movement. Keep him watching my hands instead of his.
“You saved my life...” I let the gratitude sound real, and that’s the easiest part because it is real. “I haven’t exactly processed everything that’s happened.”
His expression tightens, the hardness flickering. “You’re not quite in the clear yet.”
“I know.” I let my eyes dip to his mouth, then back to his. “But I want to stop feeling like I’m drowning every time I close my eyes.”
It’s the truth, twisted just enough to be useful.
He shifts, weight changing, like he’s fighting the instinct to come closer. His fingers flex against the edge of the counter. I can see him doing the math. The timing. The risk.
Perfect.
I step in, then stop just outside his reach, like I’m unsure. Like I’m hesitating. Which is mostly true.
He watches my hesitation like it’s a crack he can slide his hands into. “Cat,” he says again, lower. “What are you doing?”
I exhale softly, like I’m embarrassed. Like I’m confessing something. “I’m trying to decide.”
“Decide what?”
Whether you’ll make this easy. Whether I’ll hate myself after.
I lift my shoulders in a small shrug. “If I’m allowed to want something.”
His eyes flare, green turning molten. “You’re allowed to want anything.”
That’s the problem, Matteo.
I inch closer, letting the air go electric on purpose. Letting the shirt ride up slightly when I move, a flash of thigh I know he’ll see.
His focus snags, and his breath catches.
I feel a grim satisfaction bloom in my chest. Then, I touch his wrist, and his pulse jumps under my fingertips, fast and hard.
He goes still, fighting himself. “Cat, what are—” he starts, but the words are already fraying.
I slide my fingers up his forearm, slow enough to be innocent, steady enough to be deliberate. “It’s been a long day,” I breathe. “And I just want to forget…”
My other hand moves to the counter, casual, palm flat. His gaze drops to my hand, then to my mouth, then back to my hand again like he’s trying to anchor himself somewhere safe. He swallows. “Cat. This is… not smart.”
“I’m not asking for smart,” I say softly. “I’m asking for a minute where I don’t feel like prey.”
His jaw tightens at that. The word lands. Good. Because Matteo Rossi can’t resist being the kind of male who makes you feel safe. And if he’s focused on that, he won’t notice when I take what I need.
I step closer until the space between us collapses into heat. I let my lashes dip, let my voice go quieter. “You keep looking at me like you’re holding back,” I whisper. “Why?”
His throat works. “Because I know you’re angry with me. Because you have every damned right to be furious.”
My lips curve. “I can be angry and still… want things.”
True. Not the whole truth.
I lean in, stopping just short of his mouth, letting the tension wind tight enough to snap.
He doesn’t move. He waits, like he’s trying to give me the choice. Like he’s decent.
Decent males are the easiest to distract.
“You saved my life,” I repeat, letting the words sink in, letting them soften him. “And I haven’t said thank you.”
“You don’t owe me—”
“I owe you,” I insist, and this time I let my fingers slip from his wrist to his hand, threading them through his like it’s intimate, like it’s trusting.
His grip tightens automatically, and I feel it. The moment his body chooses me even while his brain protests.
I rise onto my tiptoes.
He goes taut, breath turning rough, eyes locked on my mouth like it’s the only thing in the room. Our lips are a mere heartbeat away.
The kiss is supposed to be an act. A distraction. But it doesn’t behave.
He meets me halfway like he’s been falling for four years and finally found the ground.
His lips capture mine and heat tears through me so fast my knees dance.
His hand catches my hip, not rough, not gentle, just necessary to keep me standing, and pulls me closer.
The world narrows to his mouth and the way I still perfectly fit there.
Fuck. I want to rage. I want to scream.
I forget why I started this.
He tastes like danger and nineteen and regret. I open to him and hate how easy it is. The old rhythm snaps on like a lamp. My fingers in his hair, his palm at the small of my back, the soft sound I can’t help when his tongue skims mine.
A noise escapes him. It’s wrecked and reverent, and it slices me open. For a breath, I let myself drown. I let the part of me that presses a palm to an inked blossom believe in a version of the world where we’re not enemies, not hunted, not made into weapons.
Then I hear his voice again in my head—I’ve got her here. I’ll hold until you get——and the water goes black.
I break the kiss and sway, dizzy with the whiplash. His forehead rests against mine, eyes closed. It’s like he’s saying a prayer he doesn’t quite believe in.
“Cat,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop.”
I almost do.
Instead, I smile against his mouth, slow and sinful, and let my fingertips trail up the back of his neck and find the tender spot at the base of his skull where bone meets nerve. He shivers, eyes opening and pupils blown.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe, and capture his mouth again.
He doesn’t.
His guard drops the rest of the way, his cock hard and pressed against my belly. It’s a feat to ignore the raging heat growing between my legs. His gun is forgotten, and his phone is face down on the counter. Every instinct that kept him alive is softened by a woman he should have run from. Again.
My hands map the line of his shoulders, slide into his hair tugging, and then move lower. One palm flattens against his chest to feel the thunder there and the other slips down to his cock.
He lets out a groan, his hips grinding against my palm. He’s too busy kissing me to notice the shift.
I move.
My knee bumps his shin and his weight shifts forward. My fingers re-angle, not to caress but to strike. I snap the bottom edge of my palm to the spot I just softened behind his neck, precise and brutal.
The human body is treacherous. It keeps secrets. It also keeps off switches.
A white flare darts through his eyes. His mouth parts, confused, and then he folds, catching himself on the counter enough to stop a full collapse. I guide him down so he doesn’t split his head on the edge. It’s almost tender, but it feels like murder.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I mean it so damned much it hurts.
He blinks up at me, pupils losing their fight. “Kitty—” His hand finds my thigh, not to hold, just to confirm I’m real. Then his eyes roll, and the room lets him go.
I kneel there for three breaths with my palm over his chest, needing to feel the steady beats beneath his ribcage until the sting in my throat becomes something I can use.
Move.
I grab the phone from the counter. The last call is labeled Leo. My stomach tilts. If Ale asks… I’ll hold until you get— Maybe not betrayal. Maybe protection? The doubt hits too late.
My fingers are flying across the keypad.
Matteo: Never mind. Don’t come here. We’ve been made. On the move. I’ll text you with more info once we’re at the next safehouse.
Then I grab his phone from the counter and snap a few pictures. Unconscious and dead look nearly the same.
Forcing myself not to tuck a blanket under Matteo’s head, not to trace the scar on his cheek like an apology, I start to search the house. There must be handcuffs or at least a rope somewhere in here.
At the threshold I look back. He’s sprawled on the rug, big and breakable in a way he never lets himself be. I hate him for making this hard. I hate myself for making it necessary.
Then I slip out into the hall, barefoot and quiet, and aim for the stairs. The second floor still smells like fresh paint and second chances. I don’t deserve either.
The phone vibrates in my palm as I reach a closet upstairs.
Donal: Last warning. If you’re not with me in an hour, I can’t protect anyone.
I touch the blossom once, the name that is a door I can’t open, then my fingers are jabbing the keys once more.