Page 50 of Twisted Vows

She met his gaze, something sharp passing between them. A challenge. A plea.

And then, finally, she broke the silence. "What now?"

Chapter Thirty-Two

The weight of bloodshed still clung to the DeLuca villa, but inside, there was a rare moment of quiet. The battle was over, the enemies buried, and the throne secured. Luca remained behind to handle the cleanup, ensuring that every trace of Enzo and his betrayal was wiped from existence.

Matteo, however, had no interest in staying. His focus was solely on Isla.

He led her through the grand hallways, his grip on her wrist firm but not forceful. The adrenaline from the night was still coursing through them, but there was something heavier beneath it. Something final. The war was over, but something between them was just beginning.

"You’ll sleep here from now on," Matteo said, his voice leaving no room for argument as they stepped into his bedroom.

Isla glanced around. She had been in his space before, but it was different now. The meaning behind it had shifted. This wasn’t just about power anymore. This was something deeper, something unspoken between them.

She turned to him, tilting her head. "Is that a command?"

Matteo’s eyes darkened, the heat between them sparking again. "No. It’s a fact. You belong here. With me."

She didn’t argue. She didn’t need to. Because deep down, she knew he was right.

Matteo stepped closer, his fingers reaching for the zipper at the back of her dress. "Let’s wash away today."

The tension between them simmered as he guided her into the adjoining bathroom, the marble interior gleaming under the dim lighting. The air was thick, electric, charged with everything unspoken between them. Matteo turned on the shower, the steam curling around them as the water heated, but his eyesnever left her, dark and unreadable, watching as though daring her to run.

But she wouldn’t. Not this time.

Without hesitation, he reached for her, his fingers brushing over the fabric of her dress, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment. Isla should stop him. She should reclaim the distance she had fought so hard to maintain. But she didn’t. She let him strip her bare, each touch branding her, each slow movement unraveling the last remnants of her restraint.

The dress, torn and bloody, pooled at her feet, and Matteo stepped back, his gaze raking over her with a possession so fierce it made her knees weaken. He exhaled through his nose, as if grounding himself, as if fighting against the need clawing at his composure. Then, with painstaking patience, he undressed.

Each movement was controlled, precise—like a man taking apart a weapon piece by piece, ensuring no weakness remained. His shirt hit the floor, then his belt, each layer exposing the raw power beneath, the tension rippling through his body. When he was finally bare, he closed the distance between them with slow, measured steps, his control fraying at the edges.

He pulled her into the shower, the hot water cascading over them, scalding yet secondary to the heat burning between them. His hands roamed her body, not just to cleanse but to claim, to mark, to remind her exactly who she belonged to. Isla pressed her palms against his chest, her fingers trailing lower, her breath ragged as the past and present collided in a rush of need.

There was no rush, no urgency—only a slow, devastating surrender. His lips found hers, not just to take but to give, to make her feel every ounce of the war he fought within himself. It was punishment and worship, anger and devotion, every emotion tangled in the way his mouth consumed hers.

She whimpered into his kiss as he pressed her against the cool tile, the contrast of heat and ice sending a shudder throughher. Her nails dug into his back, anchoring herself to the force of him, needing more, needing everything. Matteo groaned against her lips, his grip tightening, his control slipping.

His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her effortlessly, molding her against him in a way that left no doubt—this was inevitable. The slow, drawn-out fight between them had led to this moment, to the breaking point neither of them could deny anymore.

He trailed his lips down her neck, his breath hot against her wet skin. "You drive me insane, Isla," he muttered against her pulse, his voice raw, unhinged. "Tell me this is what you want."

She should deny him. She should push him away. But the truth was in her trembling hands, in the way she pulled him closer, in the way her body melted beneath his. "I hate that I do."

A dark chuckle rumbled in his chest. "That’s not an answer."

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his eyes burning with possession. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, down her throat, over her racing pulse. "Say it."

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t look away. "I want this. I want you."

The words barely left her lips before Matteo crushed his mouth to hers, claiming, taking, giving. His hands were everywhere—possessive, desperate, filled with a hunger that neither of them could deny.

The water streamed around them, washing away everything but this moment, this feeling, this inevitable surrender.

Because this—this was their beginning. Their rebirth in the aftermath of destruction.

And neither of them would ever be the same again.

---