CHAPTER 22

Jamie didn’t sleep.

Not because he couldn’t.

Because he was thinking.

Seduction had worked — not in the way Matteo feared, but in the way Jamie needed. He had seen it: the flicker behind Matteo’s eyes. The moment where control wavered.

Matteo wasn’t untouchable.

He was restraining himself.

Which meant there was something to restrain. He wasn't simply a cold blooded killer robot.

And if Jamie couldn’t leave physically, he could at least rattle the cage.

The room was too perfect.

The perfection mocked him.

The bed was made when he comes out of the shower.

The desk was polished every afternoon.

The flowers replaced daily.

Like he was in an exhibit. But was the precious art in it.

Like he was being preserved.

Jamie stood in the center of the room and slowly turned in a circle.

“Let’s ruin something,” he whispered.

He grabbed the bedside lamp first.

He didn’t throw it immediately.

He held it. Felt its weight. Felt the tremor in his own hands.

This is childish, a voice in his head said.

So is locking someone in a luxury prison, another voice answered.

He hurled it at the wall.

The sound was violent. Ceramic shattered. Metal bent. The crash echoed down the hallway.

Silence followed.

Jamie’s pulse spiked.

Good.

He grabbed the chair next.

This time he didn’t hesitate. He slammed it into the desk. Once. Twice. The wood cracked. Splintered.

He flipped the mattress.

Ripped the sheets down.

Tore the curtains from their rods.

The room transformed from pristine to chaotic in under three minutes.

Glass glittered across the floor. Fabric pooled at his feet. A painting hung crooked, frame cracked.

Jamie stood in the center of it all, breathing hard.

It didn’t fix anything.

But it felt like oxygen. Like he could breath again. A small smile marred his lips. The first real one in weeks.

The maids arrived first.

Three of them. Dresssed in black and white aprons and caps.

They didn’t rush in screaming.

They stepped as quietly as quiet can be.

And stopped.

One of them gasped softly when she saw the shattered mirror.

Another looked at Jamie like he had just detonated a bomb.

Jamie tilted his head.

“What?” he asked calmly.

The youngest maid bent immediately, beginning to gather glass with shaking hands.

“Don’t,” Jamie said.

She froze.

The other two looked toward the hallway.

Waiting.

Because they all knew who would come next.

Matteo didn’t storm in.

He took his time.

Leisurely.

Measured steps over broken glass. His shoes crushed them.

He took in the destruction in silence.

His gaze moved from the overturned mattress… to the splintered desk… to the cracked mirror…

Finally to Jamie.

Jamie held his stare.

There was no apology in his posture.

“Finished?” Matteo asked.

The calmness almost made Jamie laugh.

“Not even close,” Jamie replied.

A shard of glass crunched under Matteo’s shoe as he stepped further into the room.

The maids remained frozen.

No one breathed.

“You’re bored I get it,” Matteo said.

Jamie shrugged. “No you don't...I thought I’d make it clearer.”

Matteo’s jaw flexed.

That was the only visible sign of any reaction to the destruction.

“You’ve damaged expensive things,” Matteo said.

“You can afford it.”

A pause.

Then

“This doesn’t change your situation I have a very thick skin. Thicker than yours.”

Jamie stepped closer, glass crunching under his bare feet. He didn’t even flinch when a small piece nicked his skin.

“Let see in the battle of who has the thickest skin,” Jamie said quietly in a mocking tone.

Matteo’s eyes flicked down to the thin line of red on Jamie’s foot.

For a fraction of a second — a fraction — concern flashed there.

Jamie saw it.

And pushed harder.

“Does it bother you?” Jamie asked softly. “That you can lock me up but you can’t make me calm or accept you?”

The maids shifted uncomfortably.

One of them whispered, “Sir—”

Matteo raised a hand without looking at her.

Silence again.

“You’re testing unchartered waters,” Matteo said.

“So,” Jamie replied. “I’m not scared of sharks.”

Matteo stepped close enough that Jamie had to tilt his head back slightly to maintain eye contact.

“Crazy boy, I would be careful if I were you.” Matteo murmured.

Jamie smiled — slow, taunting.

“Or what?”

There it was.

The question.

The line.

Matteo’s hand shot out — not striking — but gripping Jamie’s jaw firmly.

Not violent.

But undeniably dominant.

“Do not confuse my restraint,” Matteo said quietly, dangerously close, “with weakness.”

Jamie’s pulse jumped.

But he didn’t look away.

“Then stop restraining yourself, punish me” Jamie whispered.

The room felt smaller.

The air heavier.

Matteo’s thumb pressed slightly harder against Jamie’s jaw.

Jamie could see it now — the anger not erupting, but contained. Held back by force of will.

Matteo leaned in just enough that his breath ghosted against Jamie’s mouth.

“You want me angry?” Matteo asked softly.

Jamie swallowed.

“Yes.”

Because anger meant emotion.

Emotion meant weakness.

And weakness meant opportunity.

Matteo studied him for a long second.

Then slowly released him.

“You’re not ready for my anger,” he said.

He turned to the maids.

“Clean it.”

They moved immediately.

Quick, efficient, heads down.

Jamie stepped backward onto the overturned mattress, arms crossed.

“That’s it?” he asked. “No punishment? No threats?”

Matteo looked at him over his shoulder.

“You want me to hurt you?”

The question wasn’t cruel.

It was analytical.

Jamie’s stomach twisted — not from fear, but from the realization that Matteo genuinely wanted the answer.

“No,” Jamie said after a beat. “I want you to lose control.”

The room went still again.

One of the maids accidentally dropped a piece of glass.

The sound echoed.

Matteo turned fully toward him again.

“You assume control is for me,” he said.

Jamie frowned.

“It’s for you,” Matteo continued quietly. “You are alive because I choose control.”

That sentence landed heavy.

Jamie hated that it carried weight.

He hated that part of him believed it.

So he pushed again.

“Then maybe I should make it harder,” Jamie said.

Matteo’s eyes darkened.

“You already are.”

There was something new in his tone now.

Not just anger.

Strain.

Jamie noticed.

And that’s when he understood something dangerous:

Matteo wasn’t holding back because he wanted to dominate him.

He was holding back because he didn’t want to destroy him.

That realization unsettled Jamie more than violence would have.

Matteo walked to the door.

Paused.

Without turning around, he said:

“Break another thing, and I’ll remove the luxury.”

The door closed behind him.

The maids worked in silence.

One of them dared to glance at Jamie.

There was no hatred in her eyes.

There was pity.

Jamie looked away first.

When the room was restored hours later, it looked exactly the same as before.

Perfect.

Untouched.

As if nothing had happened.

Jamie sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the fixed mirror.

He had broken everything.

And Matteo had simply… absorbed it.

That was worse than punishment.

Because it meant the real war hadn’t even started yet.

And Matteo was still choosing patience.

Which meant when patience ran out—

Jamie didn’t finish that thought.

Instead, he lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

“Next,” he whispered.