Azra
It’s been days since Antonio tore me apart and poured every nightmare I’ve ever had into the cracks. Days since the footage he made me watch on repeat for hours charred my soul. Days since the world went dark and I thought it would stay that way.
But here, in a small wooden cabin nestled in the mountains, Matteo’s actions have shown otherwise.
He’s been my anchor through it all. He bathed me when I couldn’t lift my arms, fed me when I forgot how to answer the hungry pleas of my stomach, and held me when I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe.
I can’t tell if he’s slept at all since we arrived.
Anytime I woke, choking on the despair of my grief, he was at the foot of the bed, holding the bucket I purged the pain into.
He carried me when my legs wouldn’t work and set up a makeshift camp on the floor when the thought of being touched gave me hives.
He’s been my rock and is the sole reason I finally feel like I can take a breath without drowning.
The air feels clean again, and my skin is just as pristine.
I blink against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains as the smell of coffee and something warm and buttery drifts into the bedroom.
Instead of waiting for Matteo to bring breakfast to me—like he has every day since we arrived at the cabin—I slip out of bed.
My legs tremble as I cross the room, but they hold.
When I exit the bedroom, I spot Matteo in the kitchen.
He’s barefoot and shirtless, wearing low-riding dark-gray sweatpants, cooking as if he’s been doing it his whole life.
His hair is messy, his shoulders are broad, and his strong, muscular back already registers as familiar.
Over the past five days, he proved he would crawl over glass to reach me, and it’s made me fall for him more than I ever thought possible.
Matteo turns when he hears me, and his eyes soften instantly. “Morning, la mia tigrotta.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly hot from the husky delivery of my nickname. It reminds me so much of how often he woke me with greedy licks and hungry sucks before Antonio tried to taunt me to my death.
“Hi.”
He sets down the spatula, walks over to me, and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “Are you sure you want to leave the warmth of the blankets? It’s fucking freezing up here.”
“Says the guy not wearing a shirt.”
His tongue peeks between his teeth as he hits me with a frisky wink. “You were too busy snoring to tell me what you wanted to eat, so I thought I’d keep your options open.”
I backhand his stomach, doubling his grin. “I do not snore.”
What? I can’t go straight to begging to eat him for breakfast, or he’ll never know how much his support has meant to me.
Even the most confident man wouldn’t need to feel guilty about pulling the pin this early in a forming relationship. Our vows may have said until death do us part, but they didn’t mention psychotic meltdowns.
My hit doesn’t keep Matteo down for a second. “Don’t feel bad. You’re keeping the tourists guessing.” He moseys back to the skillet, his ab muscles popping with each swaggered step. “They still believe the worst threat in these mountains is bears and wolves. My bite is a lot harder.”
“You better not be biting anyone, mister.”
His smile… Did I die? “I’m not biting anyone. Except you… if you want me to.”
Needing to sit before I fall, I plonk my backside onto a stool near the breakfast bar, then get our conversation back on track. “You can blame a 1945 Italian children’s book classic for people’s beliefs that bears aren’t extinct in Sicily. The Bears’—”
“Famous Invasion of Sicily by Dino Buzzati,” Matteo says with me. “My mother read it to me all the time when I was a kid.” He slides freshly made crepes onto a plate before spinning to face me. “It’s been years, and I still know the words by heart.”
I smile, loving that he’s talking about his mother without the usual pain his voice once held.
“Do you miss her?”
“Every fucking day,” he says without pause for thought. “But the grief isn’t as bad now.”
“Why?” I ask, desperate for guidance on how to continue moving forward. I lost Hattie four years ago, but I’ve never had the chance to truly grieve her. I held it back until I felt safe to express it without judgment.
Clearly, I feel safe with Matteo.
He plucks a fork out of the drying rack, then slips onto the chair next to me, not looking at me as he replies, “Because she wouldn’t have been able to give me you if she were still here.”
My heart bursts.
For once, it is in a good way.
In silence, we eat together on the island. The crepes taste better than anything I’ve had in days, and not solely because I add the condiments I like, but because everything tastes better when it’s made with love.
Halfway through breakfast, guilt creeps in. It isn’t that all-encompassing guilt I felt earlier. Just loathsomeness that I’ve burdened Matteo more than I’ve made Antonio’s life a living hell.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Matteo looks up sharply. “For what?”
“For taking so long to find myself again.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. Grief is different for everyone.” Sipping his coffee, he adds, “Not all of us are built for multiple DUIs and days in county lockup.”
I choke on my crepe when laughter bursts out of me. It is unexpected but undeniably genuine.
Matteo grins, satisfied, but inside, I still hate myself a little.
If I hadn’t been so broken, perhaps I could have told him more about Antonio’s plans.
Does Matteo know that the Adamis were packing up and leaving the country?
Or was he too worried about me to make sure he didn’t need to cross continents to exact revenge?
He squeezes my hand, silently demanding my eyes back to his. “Stop. Nothing you’re thinking about right now matters. It’s my job to support my wife when she needs me. One day, you’ll do the same for me.”
I snort. “That better not be anytime within the next year. I promised your father I’d keep you on a short leash when he approved my plan for us to fake a relationship without your input.” I snap my mouth shut two seconds too late. “Forget everything I just said.”
“No fucking chance.” His mouth falls open before it cracks into a panty-wetting grin. “I knew he conspired to get us together. He’s got some stupid notion his sons will fall in order.”
I twist my lips, lost as to why he’s acting as if his father hasn’t achieved precisely that.
“Too bad he hasn’t realized Cupid’s arrow homed in on Nico’s ass years ago.”
I mimic his earlier shock. “Do tell.”
As we eat, he shares a story as wild and reckless as ours.
It’s also just as heartbreaking.
When we finish eating, I stand to clear away our dishes. That’s when I notice the massive gift hamper on the dining table. It’s overflowing with everything imaginable: chocolates. Feminine products. Bubble bath. Sketchbooks. Pencils. Markers. And a giant fluffy pink tutu. Huh?
“What is that?”
Matteo rinses our plates before filling the sink with sudsy water.
“My brothers dropped that off when your brothers brought supplies to last us another week… or ten.” My heart warms. “There’s no rush, Azra.
We can stay here forever if that’s what you want.
” He hooks his thumb to the overflowing woven basket.
“The drawing stuff is from Camille, and all the girlie shit is from Valentina and Lucia. I have no fucking clue who the tutu is from.”
My cheeks hurt from the rapid incline of my smile.
“It’s also from Camille.” I carefully pluck it out of the hamper before holding it up against myself, smiling when Matteo gags.
“I told her I’d wear a tutu all day if I had one as pretty as the one she was wearing.
This is identical to the one she was wearing. ”
He shakes his head, amused. “That kid worships you.”
Happiness spreads across my chest. I love how thoughtful his family is, and I am warming to my brothers’ unexpected support. We’ve been eating like kings on food they bought, but not one of them encroached on my personal space when they delivered it.
That was unheard of only months ago.
My fingers brush the sketchbook, and a familiar ache stirs in my chest.
“Matteo?” I say softly.
He slots a soapy plate into the drying rack, then twists his head to face me. “Yeah?”
“Can I draw you?”
Drawing was one of my greatest loves. When I was a teen, it was second only to Hattie. It won’t hold a light to Matteo, but the thought of doing something I once loved without feeling guilty seems like the right direction to continue finding myself.
Matteo’s expression shifts between awe, surprise, and something tender. “You want to draw me?”
As my teeth catch my lower lip, I nod.
“Should I change?” he asks.
“No,” I whisper. “You’re perfect like that.”
Barefoot and shirtless, with the soft morning light on his skin, is pure perfection.
There’s only one way the visual could get better.
“If not a little overdressed.”
Matteo cocks a brow as a devilish smile crosses his face. “How about we start with my torso, and if things go well, we’ll look at other options. I don’t want to rush you.”
Stealing my chance to reply, he sits on the couch, leans back, then watches me with an eagle eye that makes me sweaty.
Opening the sketchbook, I pick up a pencil and start. The lines come slowly at first since my hands are a little shaky, but the longer I draw, the clearer everything becomes.
Over the next hour, I pay extra attention to his cut jawline, the curve of his mouth, and the shadows of his collarbone. I’ve never drawn a live subject before. I usually worked on objects or the movie stars that Hattie and I had clipped from magazines.
It feels almost too personal, like my tongue hasn’t traced the bumps I’m currently shading or seen the way they contract and release when he uses every muscle he owns to bring me to ecstasy.
I’ve never felt so hot and bothered, and it’s not connected to how, stroke by stroke, I find parts of myself I lost years ago.
My grief was ugly, but this—him—is so beautiful it hurts.