Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
I swear that his kiss is a promise of its own, a declaration of how deeply he's feeling everything right now. It's protective and passionate and grounding all at once, and he tilts my head back with a gentle grip, his tongue sweeping into my mouth as he deepens the kiss.
I respond instinctively, pressing closer until there’s no space left between us.
When he breaks away, his forehead comes to rest against mine.
"Let me take care of you," he whispers.
I nod.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Matteo
I knew the second she cancelled on me that something was wrong.
Daphne Sinclair isn’t the type to back out of plans. She’s stubborn as hell and always following through on whatever she sets her mind to - even when it’s a terrible idea, even when I know she’s only doing it to prove a point.
So when she sent that short, clipped message, I knew something must have happened.
And now that I know what - now that I know exactly what that bastard Chapman has been doing, saying, twisting - I can’t fucking breathe without wanting to put my fist through a wall.
I should be at home, I should be relaxing, but how the fuck am I supposed to do that knowing what she’s been dealing with?
He made her question her instincts. Made her second-guess who she could trust.
Made her think - even for a second - that I was one of them.
That I thought like him.
The thought makes me feel fucking sick.
I should be out there, tracking him down, making sure he never sets foot near her again. But right now, that’s not what matters.
He doesn’t matter.
She does.
She’s still shaken. I can see it in the way she’s carrying herself, the way she tried to play it off like she was fine.
But I know her well enough by now. I see her. And she’s not fine.
So I do the only thing that makes sense. I pick her up, cradle her in my arms like she weighs nothing, and carry her to her bedroom.
I have one job tonight: to take care of her. Everything else - Chapman, The Tribune, the absolute fucking rage simmering in my chest - can wait.
Because right now, she needs me.
She doesn’t say it. She never would. But I see it in the way she lets me carry her, the way she doesn’t argue, doesn’t push me away like she usually does. That fight in her is still there, but right now, she’s letting me take over.
And fuck if I don’t love that.
Her tiny bedroom is dimly lit, her bed unmade, the sheets tangled from whatever restless sleep she tried to get earlier.
It’s a far cry from my sleek, modern home, where everything is polished and pristine.
But I don’t give a shit about that.
This is her space. It smells like her, feels like her.
And right now, I need to be close to her in the place where she feels safest.
I lay her down gently on the mattress, and I don’t hesitate to climb in beside her, stretching my body along hers, needing to feel her against me. I prop myself up on one elbow, my fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns on her thigh.
She’s so small compared to me - all soft curves and warm skin - and I want to wrap myself around her, shield her from all the bullshit she’s been dealing with.
Instead, I settle for showing her with my hands, my lips, my body.
"You're incredible," I murmur.
My voice is rough and strained - thick with everything I want to say but don’t know how.
"I don’t feel very incredible right now."
"Well, you are,” I tell her simply. “And I’ll prove it to you."
I lean in and kiss her, slow and lingering, pouring every unspoken word into the way my lips move against hers. She doesn’t pull away, and she doesn’t argue - she just melts into me, letting me take control, letting me be what she needs tonight.
My hand trails up beneath the hem of her oversized t-shirt, my fingertips grazing over her soft skin. Goosebumps rise in my wake, and I bunch the fabric in my hands, dragging it up over her body. She lifts her arms to let me pull it off completely and I toss it onto the floor, not giving a single fuck where it lands.
All that matters is her.
And fuck, she’s so beautiful.
The glow of the bedside lamp casts soft shadows over her bare skin, highlighting every dip, every curve. My gaze drags over her, drinking her in, and when I finally meet her eyes, she’s already watching me.
Waiting.
Trusting.
She doesn’t even realise how fucking strong she is.
"You're safe with me," I murmur, my voice thick with promise. "Always."
Her breath hitches, and I feel it - the exact moment the weight of my words sinks in.
Tears sting her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall.