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Chapter fourteen

Novo

I froze at Matty's confession, my heart clenching at the self-loathing in his voice. "That's not how karma works," I said firmly. "No one deserves to have someone try to kill them. No one."

Matty shrugged against my chest, not meeting my eyes. "I was horrible to Rowan. Just because I wanted his Dom to notice me instead."

"And now?" I asked carefully. "Would you do the same thing today?"

He shook his head immediately. "God, no. I was insecure and jealous. I didn't understand... I didn't know what it was like."

"Then you've already changed," I pointed out, tilting his chin up so he'd look at me. "We've all done things we regret. That doesn't mean we deserve punishment."

Matty's eyes searched mine, looking for judgment he wouldn't find. "How can you be so understanding?"

"Because I see you," I said simply. "Not just who you were, but who you are. And who you're becoming."

A small, hesitant smile touched his lips, then his belly rumbled loudly and I grinned. “Seems like someone needs feeding.”

Matty flushed. "I suppose I need a shower."

I nodded, releasing him reluctantly. I wanted to help, but this Matty was independent. He wouldn’t want me washing his hair and soaping him.

As Matty disappeared into the bathroom, I pulled on a shirt and headed to the kitchen, my mind racing with everything that had happened.

I'd finally told him the truth about my connection to Coombes, and instead of the anger or betrayal I'd expected, he'd responded with a kind of understanding I wasn't sure I deserved.

And then there was that moment of vulnerability—his confession about bullying another Little. The self-recrimination in his voice had hit me hard. Matty carried wounds that went deeper than I'd realized.

I was pulling ingredients from the refrigerator when my phone buzzed. Jono.

"Yeah?" I answered, keeping my voice low.

"We've got movement," Jono said without preamble. "Coombes made three calls after leaving you. One to a burner phone we can't trace, one to his lawyer, and one to the bank."

My grip tightened on the phone. "He's moving money."

"Looks that way," Jono confirmed. "Digger's watching the accounts we have access to. So far, nothing unusual, but we're on alert."

"He's planning something," I said, glancing toward the hallway where I could still hear the shower running. "Keep eyes on him."

"Already done. How's Matty?"

I hesitated, unsure how to answer. "Back to himself. I told him everything—about my parents, about why I agreed to the marriage."

"How'd he take it?"

"Better than I deserved," I admitted. "But we're not out of the woods yet."

"Never are," Jono replied philosophically. "Club's got your back. Both of you."

"Appreciate it," I said, ending the call as I heard the water shut off.

I returned to preparing dinner, pulling out ingredients for a simple pasta dish. My mind was still processing everything—Matty's reaction to my confession, his vulnerability about his past behavior, and now Coombes's suspicious activity. Something was coming, and we needed to be ready.

Matty appeared in the doorway a while later, showered and shaved, dressed in sweatpants and a plain t-shirt.

I missed his dinosaur ones, and while I understood he wasn’t in that head space right now, it was a bit of a slap in the face.

His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends, but he looked even younger than before, if that was possible.

"Smells good," he said, hovering uncertainly at the edge of the kitchen.

"Just pasta," I replied, gesturing toward the counter. "Want to help?"

He nodded, seeming relieved to have something to do. As he moved beside me to chop vegetables, I noticed how careful he was to maintain a small distance between us. The easy intimacy we'd shared in bed had been replaced by a cautious awareness.

"Jono called," I said, deciding honesty was the best approach. "Coombes has been making calls, moving money around. We're keeping an eye on him."

Matty's knife paused mid-chop. "He's planning something."

"Probably," I admitted. "But we're ready. The compound is secure, and we've got people watching his movements."

He resumed chopping, his movements precise and controlled. "I should be more afraid, shouldn't I? My godfather is trying to kill me, and I'm standing here making dinner like it's just an ordinary day."

"Shock does strange things," I offered. "And you've been through a lot."

"Yeah." He was quiet for a moment, focused on the vegetables. "It's weird, though. Part of me feels... relieved."

I glanced at him. "Relieved?"

"That I finally know," he clarified. "I've spent years missing him. Wondering why he never acted like he cared anything about me.” he paused. “But why now? What changed in two years? With the money I mean.”

"Because he’s made some bad financial decisions and he’s had to dip quite significantly into your funds to shore his own up." Matty slid the chopped vegetables into the pan.

"That makes sense. He never cared what I spent before."

We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, the sizzle of vegetables and the bubbling of pasta the only sounds. It was strangely domestic, this careful dance in the kitchen, and I found myself wondering if this was what our life could be like if circumstances were different.

"I've been thinking," Matty said finally, his voice deliberately casual. "About what happens after this is over."

I kept my attention on the sauce, giving him space to continue at his own pace.

"The contract says two years," he went on, "but once Harold is dealt with and the trust fund is secure, there's really no reason for you to stay married to me." His voice was carefully neutral, but I caught the slight tremor in it.

I set down the wooden spoon I'd been using to stir the sauce, turning to face him fully. "Is that what you want? To end the marriage early?"

Matty shrugged, not meeting my eyes as he focused intensely on arranging the garlic bread on a baking sheet.

"I just mean... you didn't sign up for all this.

The attempts on my life, the Little stuff, any of it.

I know I said a Daddy, but that was really Ricky's idea and I went along with it.

I hadn't realized about my Little. So, once you get justice for your parents, you should be free to live your life. "

I studied him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers trembled slightly. "And what about what I want?"

"What do you want?" he asked quietly, finally looking up at me.

I held his gaze, wanting him to see the truth in my eyes. "I want to see where this goes. Not because of a contract or revenge or money, but because I care about you. Because when I thought I might lose you, nothing else mattered."

A flush crept up his neck, and he looked away again. "You barely know me."

"I know enough," I said simply. "I know you're stronger than you think. I know you care deeply, even when you try to hide it. I know you're kind to everyone except yourself."

His eyes flickered back to mine, surprise evident in them.

"And I know," I continued softly, "that I want the chance to learn more."

The stove beeped, breaking the moment. Matty turned away quickly, busying himself with the pasta while I slid the garlic bread into the oven. The conversation hung between us, unfinished but not forgotten.

As we moved around each other, setting the table and then serving the food, I could sense Matty processing what I'd said. I didn't push, giving him the space he needed.

"This is good," he said after taking his first bite of pasta.

"Thanks. Old family recipe," I replied, watching him carefully. "My mom taught me."

"She must have been a good cook."

"She was," I said, a familiar ache in my chest at the memory. "Sunday dinners were sacred in our house. No matter how busy the store got, we always sat down together."

Matty's expression softened. "That sounds nice."

"It was." I took a sip of water. "What about your parents? What were they like?"

“I don’t really remember them. I was three when they died.”

I could have kicked myself and it must have shown on my face. I knew that.

“It’s okay. Like I said, I don’t really remember them.” I knew he didn’t have any other family because of the details Ricky had sent and what Digger told me, but I ached to give him just that—a family. But I’d pushed him enough for one day.

"Maybe you could tell me about Harold," I suggested. "Before all this, I mean."

Matty pushed pasta around his plate for a moment before answering. "He was... distant. Always has been. I lived with him after my parents died, but I barely saw him. There were nannies, housekeepers. Then boarding school from age six."

I tried to imagine Matty as a small boy, sent away by the only family he had left. "No visits home?"

"Holidays, sometimes." He shrugged, aiming for casual but missing by a mile. "Usually he'd be 'unexpectedly called away on business' halfway through. I spent most breaks at school."

The matter-of-fact way he described his isolation made my chest ache. "That must have been lonely."

"You get used to it," he said, but the slight tremble in his voice betrayed him. "By high school, I preferred staying at school. At least there were other kids."

I thought of Matty in his Little space, his delight over simple things like dinosaur pajamas and pancakes with faces. How much of that came from a childhood of neglect?

"When did you first realize you were a Little?" I asked carefully, watching his reaction.

He tensed, then deliberately relaxed his shoulders. "Submissive,” he corrected me. “College, I guess. I started going to clubs, met some people in the scene." He took a sip of water. "The Little, I would never even acknowledge to myself. I guess I’m broken."

"You're not broken," I said firmly.