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The room feels like it's closing in, the walls smeared with shadows that seem to mock my predicament. The air is thick, laced with the scent of antiseptic and something metallic—fear, perhaps, or blood.

"Fuck," I mutter under my breath, trying to piece together Patrick's revelations. "So, you're telling me this whole time?—"

"Easy, El." His voice cuts through my thoughts, sharp as a knife. "I've been around much longer than you think."

Patrick stands tall, arms spread wide, as if he owns not just the room but the very air I breathe. "This is Mrs Tinsdale’s house," he says, his tone casual, as if he's discussing the weather, not flipping my world upside down.

"Mrs. Tinsdale?" The name feels foreign on my tongue, and I press my hand against my throbbing head. "Jesus, these drugs are fucking with me."

He sighs, the sound heavy with feigned concern. "You're sharper than this, El. Focus."

"Sorry." I grit my teeth, frustration boiling beneath my skin. "My mind is playing catch-up with your twisted game."

"Understandable," he concedes with a half-smile thatdoesn't reach his eyes. He picks up the bowl of soup, steaming gently in the dim light. "Eat your soup; you need strength."

My stomach churns at the thought, acid bubbling up like a toxic brew. But Patrick doesn't care. He scoops up a spoonful, bringing it to my lips with a tenderness that belies the iron grip he has on everything else.

"I can feed myself," I snap, recoiling from his touch.

"Of course, you can." He leans in close, his breath hot on my face. "But I want to take care of you, El."

The proximity is suffocating, his presence a cage I can't escape. "Why? After all this time, why now?"

"Because I've waited two decades for you," he confesses, his voice a low growl. "We've had our distractions—Aela, Niko... But it's always been you, El. Only you."

His admission sends a cold shiver down my spine. I'm a possession, a prize he's claimed without my consent.

"Let me go, Patrick," I plead softly, the words tasting like defeat.

But he just smiles, feeding me another spoonful of soup as if we're simply two lovers sharing a meal, not a captor and his unwilling captive in a dark dance of power and obsession.

I shove Patrick's hand away, the spoon clattering against the bowl. "I can't eat anymore. Please, just stop." My voice is a raspy whisper; I'm barely hanging on to consciousness.

"You really need to eat more," he insists, frowning down at me like I'm a stubborn child refusing her medicine.

"Patrick, I—" The words choke off as a wave of nausea crashes over me, and I feel my stomach revolt.

"I think I’m going to vomit," I gasp out, panic edging into my voice as my body heaves.

In an instant, he's thrusting that old white plastic ice cream container under my chin, and I retch, the contents of my stomach spilling out in violent waves. The few mouthfuls of soup I'd managed come up in lurching spasms, my body shaking from the effort.

"Where the fuck is that doctor?" Patrick growls, his dark eyes scanning the room, his face contorting with anger and impatience. He stands abruptly, leaving me hunched over, the foul stench of bile filling my senses, and strides out of the room, his heavy steps echoing down the hallway.

The door slams shut behind him, and I'm left alone, trembling, the ice cream container still clutched in my hands. Control—it's all about control with him. And right now, I've lost mine completely.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Matteo Ricci

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, the tightness in my chest clawing its way up my throat. It's like that goddamn line from Titanic, Its been 84 years or some shit—yeah, you know the one. Feels like a godforsaken eternity since I last saw Eleanor, and every tick of the clock is a hammer to my skull. The city lights blur past us, mocking me with their indifference. The streets choke with cars even at this ungodly hour, and we're inching through like snails in a death march.

"There has to be a faster way through this traffic!" I growl, desperation edging out reason. My leg bounces uncontrollably, a physical echo of the chaos writhing inside me.

Spike manoeuvres the car with the finesse of a beast slinking through the urban jungle, his eyes cold and focused. "I’m going the fastest way, boss," he snaps back, flipping the bird at some asshole who's too close for comfort. We swerve,narrowly missing the jerk's bumper as Spike accelerates through the light.

That's when the ringtone slices through the tension—a sharp, jarring note that has me fumbling for the phone. Night security. They'd only call if hell was breaking loose.

"Ricci," I bark into the device, voice like gravel, no room for bullshit.