His expression is calm. Not mocking. Not threatening. Not flirtatious exactly. Just stating something as if it’s fact. “I would’ve taken very good care of you.”
The words settle between us, strange and dangerous.
Cobra would hate them.
Every single one.
My voice comes out quieter than I expect. “I don’t want to be taken care of by you.”
Matteo studies me for a second. Then his mouth curves slightly. “No. I didn’t think you would.”
The car stops.
One of his men gets out first. Then the other. Matteo opens his door and steps out with the ease of a man who expects the world to wait for him. I sit frozen for one extra heartbeat, staring at the clubhouse doors.
I’m here.
I’m actually here.
The door beside me opens.
Matteo looks down at me. “Follow me.”
I step out. My legs nearly fail. Not because I’m weak. Because my body understands before my mind catches up that the worst thing is over for the moment, and sometimes relief is as hard to stand under as fear.
I force myself upright. One step. Then another. I walk behind Matteo and his men, but my eyes are already searching through the windows, through the light, through the shadowed movement inside.
The door opens. Warm air hits me. Voices stop.
I step into the main room. Everyone is there.
Mac. Kya. Brooke. Emma. Bella. Raven. Shaina. Allie. Ana. The brothers. Prospects. Faces I know. Faces that look wrecked and furious and relieved all at once. But I barely see them. Because then I see him.
Cobra.
Everything else disappears.
He stands near the center of the room, blood on his hands, violence in every line of his body, and for one terrible second he doesn’t move. Neither do I. Then whatever was holding me upright breaks.
I run.
No thought. No hesitation. No pride.
I cross the room like the space between us is the only thing left in the world that can hurt me, and then I hit him.
He catches me. His arms come around me, hard and immediate, lifting me clear off my feet as I collapse into him. My hands claw at his cut, his shirt, anything I can hold. My face buries against his neck, and the first sound that leaves me isn’t a word. It’s broken. Shaking. Alive.
His arms tighten until there is no space between us. Still not enough. Never enough. “I’ve got you,” he says, voice low and rough against my ear. “I’ve got you, angel.” That’s what breaks me. Not the fear. Not the relief. His voice.
I shake so hard I can’t control it. My breathing stutters, catches, fails, and his hand slides up the back of my head, holding me to him while the other arm bands around my waist.
“You’re here,” he says. “You’re with me.”
I nod against him, but I can’t speak. I don’t need to.
He knows.
For a minute, maybe longer, the room doesn’t exist. There is only his chest, his heat, the feel of his body wrapped around mine like he can put the world back where it belongs by holding hard enough. Then the silence shifts. Every eye moves away from us.
