Page 40 of Matteo (The 4 Seats #1)
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Eleanor Wang
T he bastard doctor's fingers twist and prod at my shattered leg, grinding bone against bone. Sweat beads on my forehead as I fight back curses, the painkillers barely dulling the agony coursing through me.
"Nearly all done, just adding the last layers. Then it needs one to two days to set. She cannot be moved till then," he says, flashing a conspiratorial wink that sends my insides into a tailspin. Is this quack actually in my corner, or is he getting his kicks from my misery?
Patrick's voice cuts through the haze of pain like a knife. "One to two days?!" he bellows, the veins in his neck bulging with impatience. "For fucks sake."
Desperation creeps across Patrick's face, but the doc is already moving on to the next issue, pointing to the Endone on the counter with a grimace. "These will make her stomach turn. I’ll go and collect something that is a lot gentler on her stomach; we cannot have her vomiting all over the new cast and setting you back further,” he warns .
"Fine, do whatever is needed," Patrick snaps, raking a hand through his dark hair. His eyes linger on me for a fraction too long, revealing a glint of something like concern before it's quickly shuttered away. "But I want to be back in London as soon as possible."
"Understood," replies the doctor, already shrugging into his coat. "Do I need a driver?"
Patrick's response is ice-cold, his glare enough to freeze hell over. "No, take my car, but be back in forty minutes."
"Of course. I’ll wash my hands and be on my way." The doc exits, leaving the stench of antiseptic and unspoken threats hanging heavy in the air.
I'm left there, a broken doll in the clutches of a man whose obsession runs as deep as the criminal empire he controls. And I can't shake the feeling that time is running out—every second ticking away is another moment lost, another inch I drift from the life I once knew. Matteo, are you alive?
Patrick's gaze pierces through me like a sharpened blade, his question hanging in the air as I struggle to find even footing in this twisted reality. "How are you feeling?" he probes.
"Like my whole life is a lie, and no one is telling me a thing!" The words claw their way out of my throat, anger seething with every syllable.
"Right," Patrick mutters, rising from the chair beside my bed. "Hold on, I'll get us some tea and food if we're about to talk shop." He strides out, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone with the thumping of my own heart.
The minutes drag, each one a lifetime as I stew in my own tangled thoughts. When Patrick returns, it's with the domesticity of a hot bowl of soup and two cups of tea.
"Okay El, what did you want to know first?" His voice is casual, as if we're discussing the weather rather than my captive existence.
"Can you please explain to me how exactly I belong to you?" I demand, the urgency gnawing at my insides. There's an escape plan brewing, a desperate need to flee before Matteo's absence becomes permanent. He has to be alive. He must be.
Patrick sets down the tray, his eyes locking onto mine. "Do you remember your first apartment in Glebe? The one next to the park?"
A chill runs down my spine. "Yes, of course, I do; it was the first apartment I lived in after I moved out of home."
He leans forward, his smile cold and calculating. "Well, I owned that building. Bought it when I heard you moved into it." His confession sends my mind reeling deeper into the abyss.
"But why?" My voice is barely above a whisper, dread laced with every word.
"Mrs Tinsdale," he says, and I feel the trap snapping shut. "Remember her?"
The memory of my childhood nanny surfaces reluctantly. "Yes, she was my nanny for about two years when I was little."
"Mine too. But for a lot longer than yours," he confesses, warmth in his expression that doesn't reach his eyes. "She showed me a photo of you in the Sydney Telegraph. It was love at first sight for me. I knew you would be mine. "
I recoil, my hands flailing as if they could bat away his sickening revelation. "I was ten when i was in that, my mum won the award for the children's hospital! You would have been, what, 18?" Disbelief wraps around my voice, holding it hostage as I confront the monster masquerading as a man.
Patrick just watches me, his twisted sense of possession laid bare beneath the fluorescent lights. And in that moment, I understand the depths of his darkness, the lengths he'd go to claim what he believes is his.
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 that doesn'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.