Page 43 of Gilded Princess

I peel the stark white down comforter off with reluctance. The soft, fluffy material makes it feel like I’m cuddling a cloud, and I know as soon as I leave this bed—this room—everything changes.

Right here, right now, I can pretend that I didn’t just get kidnapped off the street as easily as someone buys a newspaper. That I didn’t get tied up to a chair in the middle of an abandoned, exploding warehouse. That I didn’t get beat up at the hands of some psychopath. That I didn’t call my ex-boyfriend to come rescue me because he’s instinctively the first person I reach for.

Great. Now I’m dealing with guilt creeping up along my spine too. I probably shouldn’t have called him yesterday and dragged him into this mess—whatever this is.

I bite my lip as I contemplate what to do next. I know I’m supposed to be doing something, but the idea of doing anything feels really hard right now.

I vaguely remember seeing Lainey yesterday, and I think we spoke, but everything else is just outside of reach.

I need to find my phone and call my sister—and Lainey. Tears fill my eyes as my emotions threaten to spill over. Residual fear, relief, and anxiety war inside me, but I shove it all down, way down deep, inside a locked box, and tossed into the abyss of stuff I don’t think about anymore.

The last twenty-four hours feel like the plot of an action movie that Lainey would drag me to. I would always try to barter for a romcom since that’s what everyone expects of a girl like me, but I think she secretly knew the action movies were some of my favorites.

A gust of breath leaves my lips on a sigh. Swinging my legs off the bed, I realize that I’m not wearing the same clothes I was in yesterday.

In fact, all I’m in is an oversized black tee. I pinch the fabric near the collar between my thumb and index finger and bring the material up to my nose for a sniff.

“Something wrong?”

The voice startles me enough that I jump and flinch, dropping my hold on the fabric. I press a hand to my thundering heart. “Jesus, you scared me.”

Matteo Rossi stands inside the doorframe with his back against the wall and his hands in his pockets. Black pants, black shoes, and a crisp button-down shirt. The sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms, displaying all his tattoos—some of which I don’t remember seeing two years ago.

His dark-brown hair is longer on top and styled into that artfully messy look that most men spend thirty minutes on. I bet Matteo doesn’t even spend a tenth of that on his. I know from firsthand experience that handsome asshole comes by his charm naturally.

His hazel eyes look more green than brown today. A five-o’clock shadow covers his jaw, and damn if it doesn’t look incredible on him.

I look him over again, wishing not for the first time that I could read him. “I mean, I was kidnapped, beat up, and left inside a building that was crumbling.”

He pushes off the wall and strolls toward the bed with his hands still in his pockets. “Yeah. We’re going to have a chat about that today. How are you feeling?”

I tip my head back to hold his gaze. “See my previous statement.”

The corner of his mouth tips to the side, and I swear his eyes twinkle. “Good enough for snark then. Yeah, you’ll be alright.”

He slides his hand out of his pocket, the whisper of fabric rustling loud in the quiet of the room. Tension builds, the chemistry crackling in the air. Slow enough to give me time to move away, he brings his hand to my face. With the back of his middle finger, he slides my hair off my face, revealing my injury.

My breath catches at the contact, and my voice comes out a rasp. “I’m sure I look a mess.”

“You’re beautiful.”

There’s a moment of silence. It’s weighted, and I resist the urge to shift on the bed. I look away first, letting my eyes unfocus on the comforter next to me.

I let the compliment roll off my back. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with it right now. “What am I doing here?”

He cocks his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t you remember yesterday, Cherry?”

I wet my lips, wincing when something painful tugs at the corner of my mouth. “I, uh, think I do, but some things are a little blurry, and I don’t remember coming here.”

“That’s probably because you passed out in the car—mostly from the adrenaline crash. The EMT warned us about that, remember? Then I carried you inside.”

“And where am I exactly?”

“My home.”

My eyebrows climb up my forehead at his answer. In all the time we were together, I never went to his house, and I desperately wanted to.

I watched this movie once where they explained how your home environment can tell a person more than words can. Something about seeing someone’s most comfortable place offers the best insight. I glance over his shoulder at the room with a fresh, different perspective.

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