Watching and Wanting

Serena:

I didn't sleep.

The walls still held the echo of fists.

My name still tasted like violence in their mouths.

And Luca…

He hadn't come upstairs.

Not until now.

I heard the knock just after three a.m.—a soft, calculated sound.

As if he were giving me the chance to say no.

I didn't.

He entered like the shadows belonged to him.

Luca never needed permission. Only silence. And mine wrapped around him like a shroud.

He stood by the door for a moment, soaked in moonlight, jaw bruised, knuckles raw.

He looked like war trying to behave.

I should've told him to leave.

I should've locked the door hours ago.

Instead, I said, "You bleed for me too easily."

He laughed under his breath. "You think I bled for you?"

"You punched your brother into the wall because he took me out."

He came closer. "I punched him because he made me want something I'm not allowed to have."

I swallowed.

Heat unfurled between my ribs, licking up the cage of them like a match pressed to dry paper.

"What am I to you?" I asked.

His hands clenched at his sides.

Then unclenched.

Then he whispered, "A line I wasn't supposed to cross."

I stepped forward, breath tight. "So don't cross it."

His eyes burned into mine. "You're the one who opens the door every time."

He moved past me—toward the window.

Stared out at the garden below like it could cool the storm behind his eyes.

The world outside looked peaceful.

Inside, I was falling apart.

I walked up behind him. Close enough to smell the dried blood. The sweat. The restraint.

"Tell me what would've happened," I said softly, "if I had kissed you first."

He didn't turn around.

But his voice went low.

"I'd have ruined you."

Silence.

Thick.

Burning.

Alive.

I reached for him.

Placed my hand gently on his back.

He didn't flinch.

But he did turn slowly. Carefully. Like the movement itself might crack the last thread of control.

Our eyes locked.

His hand came up and ghosted over my cheek.

Then down, curling around my throat, not tight. Just a reminder of his strength and of my choice.

"Still time to stop," he murmured.

I didn't move.

"Still time to pretend we're better than this."

My breath hitched. "Are we?" I asked.

He shook his head.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn't sweet.

It was starved.

Like something that had been buried too long finally clawed its way to the surface.

His mouth was fire and steel and sin. His hands cupped my face like I was both precious and dangerous.

I felt his restraint unravel with every brush of tongue. Every stifled groan.

He kissed me like he hated himself for it.

Like he'd kill anyone else who tried.

But just when it was about to break—

He stopped.

Pulled back.

Breath was ragged.

Eyes wild.

"I won't take you like this," he said.

"Why not?" I gasped.

"Because if I do…" His voice shook. "I won't stop."

He stepped away, fists clenched again.

"I can survive wanting you, Serena. But I can't survive having you."

And just like that—he was gone.

The silence that followed wasn't empty.

It throbbed.

I stood in the dark.

Lips swollen.

Body burning.

And heart?

Still his.

Even if he never touched me again.

He didn't ask.

Matteo never asked.

He already knew.

He knew before the hallway cooled.

Before the taste of Luca's mouth had left my skin.

Maybe because he always seemed to know everything.

Maybe it's because he was already watching.

I didn't see him until the next morning.

Not in the hallway.

Not in the kitchen.

But through the reflection in the library mirror.

He was behind me.

Silent as always.

A shadow wrapped in stillness.

"You kissed him," he said.

It wasn't a question.

I didn't deny it.

Matteo walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back as if he were studying war formations instead of what was left of me.

"Did it help?" he asked.

"What?"

"The ache."

I froze. "What ache?"

He turned. Slowly.

"The one we all feel when we're near you."

My heart stuttered.

"Matteo—"

"You think it ends with a kiss? You think that's enough?" He tilted his head. "You don't understand what you're doing to us. Not yet."

"I didn't mean to—"

He laughed. Quiet. Unsettling.

"You didn't have to. You exist. That's enough."

I stepped toward him. "Then say it. Whatever you're thinking. Just say it."

His gaze dragged over me.

Not like Luca's fire.

Not like Nico's danger.

No—Matteo looked at me like I was already his.

And had been for a long time.

"I don't fight like they do," he murmured. "I don't need to."

"Why?"

"Because I don't share."

I felt that like a wire pulled tight around my ribs.

"Luca walked away last night. Did you ask yourself why?"

"He was being noble," I whispered.

"No." Matteo came closer. "He was being careful. He knows what happens when a man like him touches a girl like you. He knows what I'll do."

I swallowed. "What would you do?"

He smiled. And it chilled me.

"Whatever it takes to keep you."

He left before I could respond.

But I found something that night:

A page torn from his sketchbook.

A new drawing.

Of me.

Sleeping.

In Luca's shirt.

With a knife drawn through the fabric.

But it wasn't the blade that made me shake.

It was the message scrawled beneath it:

"One cut. That's all it takes to make her mine again."

The double entendre left me brutally chilled, wholly aching, and even more confused than before.