The car still smelled like smoke and gunpowder by the time we stopped driving.

Matteo had been silent the entire ride, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh with his gun still in reach. His shirt was stained with blood, his hair a little messy from the fight.

“We’re stopping here,” he said finally, pulling off the road into a small village.

I blinked. “Here?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because whoever attacked us might still be tracking us,” he said calmly. “If we drive straight back, we lead them home. So we wait here, let things cool down.”

I swallowed, nodding. “Okay.”

The inn was small, a warm glow spilling from its windows. A wooden sign swung overhead, creaking in the wind.

When Matteo stepped out of the car, he grabbed a cap from the backseat and pulled it low over his face.

“You talk,” he said.

“Me?”

“She might recognize me,” he said. “I’d rather not shoot an old woman tonight.”

I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

His face was unreadable. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“…No.”

“Good. Handle it.”

Inside, the inn smelled like wood polish and fresh bread. Behind the counter, an older woman looked up from her ledger and smiled.

“Evening,” she said warmly. “Looking for a room?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, trying to sound casual. “We just… we just need a place to stay for the night.”

She glanced between me and Matteo, who stood silently behind me, head lowered under the cap.

“Couple?” she asked.

My mouth went dry. “Uh…”

Matteo shifted behind me — I could feel his eyes burning into my back.

“Yes,” I said quickly. “Husband and wife.”

The woman’s smile widened. “Good. We’re nearly full tonight. Only one room left. But you’re lucky — it’s private, far from the others.”

“That’s fine,” I said, my voice a little too high.

She handed me a key and pointed toward the stairs. “End of the hall, last door on the right. Supper’s still warm if you’re hungry.”

“Thank you,” I said, forcing a smile as I grabbed the key.

When we stepped back into the hall, Matteo finally spoke, his voice low near my ear.

“Husband and wife?”

I spun to face him. “You told me to handle it!”

His lips curved just slightly. “Hm.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means you said it convincingly enough,” he said, brushing past me toward the stairs.

The room was small, just a bed, a nightstand, and a narrow window overlooking the street.

One bed.

I froze in the doorway. “There’s only one bed.”

“Yes.” Matteo walked past me, already unbuttoning his blood-stained shirt.

My brain short-circuited.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, spinning around.

“Cleaning up.” He shrugged the shirt off, his muscles flexing as he moved. “Unless you want me to bleed on your side of the bed.”

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “I—no, I just—”

“Good.” He tossed the shirt aside and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling a first-aid kit from the bag he’d brought.

I tried not to stare.

Tried and failed.

His chest was lean but strong, a faint scar cutting across his ribs. He moved with the calm confidence of someone who’d patched himself up too many times to count.

“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.

“I am not,” I said quickly.

His lips curved slightly. “Then come here and help.”

“Help?”

“Hold this.” He held out a bottle of antiseptic and some gauze.

I hesitated, then crossed the room and knelt beside him. My fingers brushed his as I took the supplies, and my pulse jumped.

He didn’t flinch when I dabbed the wound, but his eyes stayed on me, watching my face.

“You’re good at this,” he said after a moment.

“My dad…” My voice caught. “He used to get into fights sometimes. I learned how to clean cuts.”

Matteo hummed softly. “Your father sounds interesting.”

“He was,” I said quietly. “He’s gone now.”

He didn’t say sorry. I didn’t expect him to.

When I finished, I sat back on my heels. “There. You’re patched.”

Matteo didn’t move right away. His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair away from my face.

“You keep surprising me, bella,” he said softly.

I froze.

He leaned in, close enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek. Close enough that my heart was in my throat.

And then, at the very last second, he pulled back.

“When I finally take you,” he said, his voice low and dark, “you won’t be scared. You’ll be begging.”

I stared at him, breathless. “You’re impossible.”

He smirked, leaning back against the headboard. “And yet you keep following me.”

“I didn’t follow you. You dragged me here.”

“Details,” he said lazily, closing his eyes for a moment like the conversation was over.

That night, lying beside him in the same bed — with several inches of space between us — I stared at the ceiling, my thoughts spinning.

I should have been terrified.

But all I could think about was the heat in his voice when he’d said I’d be begging.

And the worst part?

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to prove him wrong — or prove him right.