Chapter 18 Eighteen
Elena's POV
I decided to fight back with ice. If fire wasn't working, if my own body was the traitor, then I would be cold. Impenetrable.
That night at dinner, I was perfectly polite. A china doll. "Please." "Thank you." My voice was flat, calm. I looked at him only when necessary, my eyes blank as washed stones. I discussed the weather with Ricardo when he asked a question. I cut my food into tiny, precise bites. I was a picture of a well-behaved future bride.
Matteo watched me. A faint, amused curve touched his mouth. He didn't seem upset. He seemed… interested.
He countered not with words, but with touch. Casual, devastating intimacy.
When I moved to sit, his hand was there, a warm, firm pressure on the small of my back, guiding me. It was a gentleman's gesture. It felt like a brand. The heat seeped through my dress.
When I reached for the salt, his fingers brushed mine as he passed it. A deliberate, lingering slide of skin on skin. A spark jumped up my arm.
He leaned close to pour water into my glass, his sleeve brushing my shoulder. His scent of sandalwood and clean, sharp danger, wrapped around me. It was on my clothes. In my hair. I breathed him in with every stiff, polite breath.
He was dismantling my ice with quiet, relentless heat. By the end of the meal, my polite mask felt brittle. My skin felt too tight, humming where he’d touched.
I escaped to my room. My heart was a trapped thing beating against my ribs. I couldn't breathe. The cold act had taken everything.
I found a blank notebook in a desk drawer. I took a pen. My hand was shaking. I needed to put the chaos somewhere.
I wrote: 'He is the most beautiful danger. I am drawn to the flame, knowing I will burn.'
The words were a confession. A surrender. Seeing them on paper made it real. I threw the pen down.
That night, I dreamed. Not of green silk, but of his hands. The ones that guided, that brushed. In the dream, they were on my skin. Not demanding, but exploring. Learning me. His touch was slow and sure and everywhere. I arched into it, a silent plea in the dark.
I woke up gasping, my sheets tangled, my body throbbing with a need so sharp it was pain.
The ice was gone. Melted by a dream.
Matteo's POV
Her cold politeness was delightful. A new tactic. I appreciated the effort. The blank eyes, the robotic manners. She was trying to bore me into leaving her alone.
She misunderstood. There was nothing more interesting than watching her construct a prison within her prison. I decided to pick the locks with the lightest touch possible.
The hand on her back was a statement. I can touch you. I will. I felt the jolt that went through her. The slight stiffening, then the involuntary lean into the warmth. Her body knew mine, even when her mind fought it.
The brush of fingers was calculated. Electricity. I saw her breath catch. Her eyes, those cool stones, flickered for a second with pure, hot awareness.
I made sure my scent was on her. Leaning close, lingering. Sandalwood was my signature. I wanted it to haunt her the way jasmine haunted me. I wanted her to lie in bed and smell me on her own skin.
By dessert, her ice was cracking. I could see the fine tremble in her hand as she set her fork down. The polite mask was still there, but her eyes had a desperate, hunted gleam. She wasn't bored. She was at war with herself. And I was winning.
She fled the table the moment it was polite. A graceful, frantic escape. I let her go. The seed was planted.
Later, in my study, I thought of her writing. She was a woman who needed to process the world on paper. I wondered what she was writing tonight. Rants? Plans? Lists of my crimes?
I hoped it was about me. I hoped it was confused. I hoped it was yearning.
My own thoughts were anything but cold. They were fixed on the memory of her back under my hand, the flutter of her pulse at her wrist. The way her "thank you" had sounded like a gasp.
The game was in a new phase. She was trying strategy now. That was good. It meant she was fully engaged. It meant she saw me as a worthy opponent.
But I didn't want to be an opponent forever.
The dream I had that night wasn't of green silk. It was of her eyes losing that cold polish, melting into the heat I knew was there. It was of her saying my name without the "signore," without the hate. Just "Matteo." A surrender.
I woke up hard and aching, the lingering scent of jasmine in the air.
She thought she was drawing closer to the flame. She didn't realize she was already burning. And so was I.