Page 388 of Rosetti Family New York
My palm is flat against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong despite everything. The skin under my hand iswarm, smooth except for the raised lines of old scars. Evidence of a life lived dangerously, a body that's seen violence before.
"There," I say, tying off the last stitch. "Try not to rip these out."
"I'll do my best." He looks down at my handiwork, then back up at me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me." I start gathering the medical supplies, needing something to do with my hands. "I didn't do it for you."
"No? Then why?"
The question hangs in the air between us. I can't explain the way my chest tightened when I saw him bleeding, or the relief that flooded through me when I realized his injuries weren't life-threatening. Can't admit that somewhere between the kidnapping and now, something has shifted.
"Because I needed something to do with my hands," I say finally, the lie thin but necessary.
"Isabella." His voice is soft, careful. "Look at me."
I don't. Can't. Because if I look at him now, I'll see something in his eyes that I'm not ready to face.
"I should let you rest," I say instead, standing up too quickly. "You need to keep those stitches clean."
"Bella."
"I'm not someone," I say, the words coming out sharper than I intend. "I'm leverage, remember?"
He's quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with something I can't name. "Not tonight."
The words hit me harder than they should. I turn to face him, and the expression in his eyes makes my breath catch. There's something raw there, something that looks dangerously close to tenderness.
"I'm going to bed," I say, backing toward the stairs. "Try not to bleed on everything."
I escape to my room, closing the door behind me with shaking hands. My heart is racing, and I can still feel the warmth of his skin under my fingers, can still see the vulnerability in his eyes when he talked about his father.
This is dangerous. More dangerous than the kidnapping or the threats or the way he makes me feel when he looks at me like I'm something precious. This is the kind of dangerous that comes from seeing past the surface, from understanding that the monster who took me is also the boy who hid his broken arm for three days.
I press my back against the door, listening to the silence from downstairs. Somewhere in the quiet safehouse, Matteo Rosetti is sitting alone with his wounds and his whiskey, and I'm hiding in my room because I'm terrified of what I might do if I stay.
Terrified of how much I wanted to take care of him.
Terrified of how right it felt to see him as something other than my captor.
But most terrifying of all: the way my body responded to touching him, to seeing him vulnerable and strong and beautiful all at once. The way something deep inside me whispered that this man, this dangerous, complicated man, might be worth the risk.
I'm not ready for that. I never will be.
13
Matteo
"Get dressed," I say. "We're going out."
Isabella looks up from her coffee cup, eyebrows rising. She's sitting at the kitchen island in those damn track pants again, hair pulled back in a messy bun, looking like she's ready for a workout rather than a day with me.
"Where?" she asks.
"Shopping."
"I don't need anything."
"You need everything." I gesture to her outfit. "You've been wearing the same three outfits for a week. Track pants and sweats. That's not who you are."
