Page 386 of Rosetti Family New York

I stand at the kitchen window, watching the forest grow darker as evening settles over the trees. Matteo left before dawn for his important business “meeting" in Manhattan, and the silence in the safehouse has grown heavier with each passing hour. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes nine times, marking another hour of waiting.

What happens if he doesn't come back?

The thought slides through my mind like ice water. This place is beautiful, luxurious, stocked with everything I could need. But it's also a cage. The windows only open three inches. The doors are electronically locked. I don't even know exactly where we are, just somewhere upstate in the middle of nowhere.

If something happened to him, would I just... stay here? Wait until the food runs out? Until someone finally comes looking? Would his brothers even know where to find me, or would I become another mystery, another person who simply disappeared?

A smaller, more troubling thought whispers in the back of my mind: I hope he's okay.

I push that thought away, focusing on the practical concerns. Survival. Escape routes. Anything except the growing knot of worry in my chest.

The front door slams with enough force to rattle the windows, and I freeze. The sound echoes through the safehouse, sharp and angry, nothing like Matteo's usual controlled entrances. My coffee cup stops halfway to my lips, the liquid suddenly bitter on my tongue.

Heavy footsteps move through the downstairs hallway, uneven and dragging. I set the cup down with shaking hands, porcelain clinking against marble. The familiar rhythm of his walk is all wrong.

I find him in the living room, standing by the windows with his back to me. His white shirt is torn at the shoulder, dark stains spreading across the fabric. Blood. Fresh blood, still wet and gleaming under the overhead lights.

This is wrong. All wrong. Matteo Rosetti doesn't come home bleeding. He's the one who makes other people bleed, who walks away from violence untouched and smiling. He's smooth confidence and calculated charm, always perfectly put together, always in control.

Not this. Not wounded and swaying on his feet.

"What happened?" The words come out sharper than I intend.

He doesn't turn around. "Nothing that matters." But his voice is rougher than usual, strained. When he reaches for the whiskey decanter on the side table, I notice the way he moves like his entire left side is made of broken glass.

"You're bleeding."

"I'm fine." He pours amber liquid into a glass, the bottle neck clinking against crystal. His knuckles are split and swollen, driedblood crusting between his fingers. Deep scratches run along his forearm, parallel lines that look like claw marks.

I move closer, my bare feet silent against the hardwood. This close, I can see the exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he's holding himself together. The untouchable mask he always wears is cracking, revealing something raw underneath.

"Matteo."

"I said I'm fine." He tries to take a sip, but his hand shakes slightly. The glass wavers, whiskey sloshing against the sides.

That's when I see it. A gash along his ribs, visible through the torn shirt. Deep and jagged, like someone dragged a knife across his skin. Still bleeding, soaking through the white cotton in a spreading crimson stain.

"Sit down," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "I'll get the first aid kit."

"Don't need it."

"You're dripping blood on the floor." I gesture to the dark droplets scattered across the hardwood. "Sit. Now."

He turns to look at me, and I see the exhaustion in his green eyes. For a moment, he looks younger. Human in a way that makes my throat tight.

This is the first time I've seen him as anything other than the dangerous man who kidnapped me. This is the first time he looks... mortal.

"Bossy," he mutters, but he moves to the couch. Sits down heavily, like his body weighs too much.

I retrieve the medical kit from the bathroom, hands moving through the familiar motions. Chase always kept one stocked in every property, insisted I learn how to use it. The weight of the kit in my hands is familiar, comforting in a way that reminds me of skills I never wanted to need.

When I return to the living room, he's slumped against the couch cushions, eyes closed. The whiskey glass sits forgotten on the coffee table, and I can see the rise and fall of his chest, too quick and shallow. His face is pale under the tan, jaw clenched tight.

The untouchable playboy who charmed his way past my defenses, who always seems to know exactly what to say. Reduced to this. Bleeding and exhausted and trying not to show how much it hurts.

"Take off your shirt," I say, setting the kit on the table next to his glass.

His eyes open, finding mine. "Careful, bella. You keep talking like that, I might think you like me."