Page 8 of Ruined By Protection (Feretti Syndicate #5)

PRESENT DAY

Hazel

T he black silk sheets slide against my skin like cool water as I lie back on the enormous bed.

My breath comes fast and shallow, my heart racing with anticipation.

Matteo stands at the foot of the bed, his powerful frame silhouetted in the dim light.

The muscles in his arms and chest flex as he moves, revealing the intricate lines of his tattoos.

The small cross on his wrist catches my eye.

Something about seeing that intimate detail makes my stomach flip.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he says, his voice dropping to the gravel tone that makes heat pool between my legs. "Spread out on my bed like that."

I watch, transfixed, as he tears open the foil packet with his teeth. His eyes never leave mine as he rolls the condom down his length. The ferocity in his gaze makes me feel both vulnerable and powerful at the same time.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he says, one knee pressing into the mattress making the bed dip under his weight.

My fingers twist in the sheets as he moves closer.

A dangerous smile spreads across his face. He places one hand on my ankle, slowly sliding it up my calf. His palm continues its journey up my thigh, leaving fire in its wake.

I can't help the small moan that escapes my lips. His touch is electric, sending sparks shooting through my body.

"That's it, bella," he murmurs, positioning himself between my thighs. "Let me hear you."

His hands grip my pelvis, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh there. "I'm going to fuck you until you forget everything but my name." The crude words sound like poetry spoken in his accent, making my skin flush with heat.

"Please," I breathe, arching toward him.

"Please what?" he asks, teasing me with just the tip. "Tell me what you want, Hazel."

"You," I gasp. "Inside me. Now ."

His eyes darken, turning almost black with desire. "Since you asked so nicely."

He pushes forward in one smooth thrust, filling me completely. The sensation is overwhelming—stretching, burning, perfect. I cry out, my back bowing from the bed.

"Fuck," he growls, his voice strained.

He stays still for a moment, letting me adjust, his arms braced on either side of my head. I can feel his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint. When he finally begins to move it's with slow, deep strokes that make me see stars.

"That's it," he whispers against my ear. "Take all of me."

His lips find my neck, trailing hot kisses down to my collarbone. The scratch of his beard against my sensitive skin sends tingles down my spine. Each thrust pushes me higher, building a pressure that threatens to consume me.

"Matteo," I moan, my nails digging into his shoulders.

"Say it again," he commands, picking up pace. "My name on your lips is the sweetest fucking sound."

"Matteo," I repeat, louder this time. The headboard begins to knock against the wall with the force of his movements.

His hand slides between us, finding the exact spot that makes me cry out.

The pressure builds and builds until I'm right on the edge. I feel myself tightening around him, my body tensing for release.

Just as the first waves of bliss begin to crash over me, something changes. The room seems to shift and blur at the edges. Matteo's voice sounds further away, though his body still moves above mine.

"Hazel," he calls, but it's different now. Distant.

The sensation of him inside me starts to fade, replaced by a hollow emptiness. The pleasure recedes like the tide going out, leaving me washed up on the shore, stranded and confused.

"No," I whisper, trying to hold onto the feeling, onto him. But it's like trying to grasp smoke.

The room darkens at the edges, Matteo's face becoming less distinct. The weight of his body on mine grows lighter until I barely feel him at all.

"Hazel," he calls again, his voice an echo in a shell.

And then I'm gasping awake in my bedroom, sheets tangled around my legs, my body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The space beside me is empty. No Matteo.

Just another dream.

I untangle myself from the damp sheets and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body still aches with phantom pleasure, the dream lingering in my system like a drug. I press my fingers to my temples, willing away the image of Matteo's hands on my skin, his voice in my ear.

Three years. Three years since that night and he still haunts my dreams.

The hardwood floor feels cool against my bare feet as I pad across the massive bedroom. Everything in this house is cold —the hand-carved four-poster bed, the silk sheets, the crystal chandelier hanging from the coffered ceiling. A beautiful prison.

I glance at the clock on the nightstand—3.17 a.m. Elliott won't be back until tomorrow night. At least I can breathe for a few more hours.

The hallway stretches before me, all marble floors and museum-quality artwork. I trace my fingers along the wall as I walk, careful not to disturb anything. Elliott notices if even a single item is out of place. The house is exactly as he wants it—perfect, sterile.

In the kitchen I flip on the small light above the sink rather than the main overhead.

The marble countertops gleam in the dim light.

I remember the first time I saw this kitchen—how impressed I was by the professional-grade appliances, the custom cabinetry, the wine refrigerator stocked with bottles worth more than I could make in a month at the bar.

Now I see it for what it is—another showcase of Elliott's wealth. Another way to display his power.

I fill a glass with water from the refrigerator dispenser.

I take a long sip, trying to wash away the old memory of Matteo. It doesn't work. It never does.

Two years ago, I was still tending bar at The Remington when Elliott Montgomery walked in.

It was the same hotel bar where I'd met Matteo the year before, though I'd tried my best to forget that night.

After Matteo, I threw myself into work, picking up extra shifts and sending more money home to my family.

I couldn't afford to get distracted by handsome strangers with dangerous smiles.

But I did, and somehow hoped that he would come back. He didn't.

Elliott came to The Remington every Tuesday and Thursday for three weeks straight, always sitting at the bar, always ordering the same drink.

Unlike the other businessmen who frequented the hotel, Elliott was polite.

He tipped well but didn't make a show of it.

He asked questions about me—real questions—and actually listened to the answers.

"You should let me take you to dinner," he said one night, his perfect smile gleaming under the bar lights.

I declined. "I don't date customers."

"Then I'll stop being a customer," he replied smoothly. "I'll find another bar."

I laughed. "There are easier ways to get a date."

"I don't want an easy date. I want you."

His persistence wore me down. I considered switching bars, getting a new job, just to escape his attention, but something about his charm kept me there. After a month of gentle pursuit I finally agreed to dinner.

He took me to the most expensive restaurant in Austin, where the ma?tre d' knew him by name. Over wine that cost more than my entire grocery budget Elliott told me about his family's construction empire, the buildings they'd built across Texas, the legacy he was set to inherit.

"You work too hard," he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. His touch was gentle, his manicured fingers smooth against my bartender's calluses. "Someone like you deserves to be taken care of."

I pulled my hand away. "I take care of myself."

"And your family," he added. "Your father's medical bills. Your brother's education."

I stiffened. "How do you know about that?"

"I make it my business to know about things that matter." His eyes were kind, his voice soft. "It's not right, what you're going through. A woman like you shouldn't have to work so many hours just to keep her family afloat."

One dinner turned into two, then three. Elliott was charming, attentive, generous. He sent flowers to my apartment, gift cards to my mother, a laptop for my brother. When Mom lost her job at the insurance company—budget cuts, they said—Elliott was there with connections and promises.

"I know people," he assured me. "We'll find her something better."

But weeks turned into months and no one would hire her. The bills kept coming. Dad's condition worsened, requiring more expensive treatments that we couldn't afford. Jake's college applications were due but the scholarship he was counting on fell through.

Then Elliott proposed.

Six months after our first date he took me to a private rooftop garden overlooking the city. Under a canopy of twinkling lights, he dropped to one knee and opened a velvet box containing a diamond ring that caught the light like a small sun.

"Marry me, Hazel," he said, his voice full of promise. "Let me take care of you. Let me take care of all of you."

I stared at the ring, at his hopeful face, at the future he was offering.

"Your mother will have a job at Montgomery Industries," he continued. "The best health insurance for your father. A full scholarship for Jake at any university he chooses."

My heart hammered in my chest. This wasn't how I'd imagined my life unfolding. But what choice did I have? My family was drowning and Elliott was throwing us a lifeline.

"Your family won't suffer anymore," he promised, sliding the heavy ring onto my finger. "Say yes, and everything changes."

I looked into his eyes, kind and earnest. I made my choice.

"Yes," I whispered.

The wedding was a lavish affair, covered by local society magazines. Elliott spared no expense. My mother wore designer clothes for the first time in her life. Jake looked handsome in his tailored suit. Dad was able to walk me down the aisle thanks to a new treatment Elliott had arranged.