Chapter 63 Sixty three
Elena's POV
I lay awake for hours. I listened to his pen scratch on paper. I listened to him turn pages. The lamp on his desk was the only light in the room.
Finally, the sounds stopped. I heard his chair push back. I heard his footsteps. He walked to his side of the bed.
The mattress dipped under his weight as he lay down. He did not touch me but I felt his heat. It radiated across the small space between our bodies. The air grew warm and heavy.
I stayed perfectly still while keeping my back to him. My eyes were open and I kept staring at the dark wall.
He did not move either. I could hear his breathing, slow and even. Was he asleep? I didn't think so.
Exhaustion began to pull at me. My limbs grew heavy. My thoughts blurred. I was losing the fight to stay awake.
Just as I started to drift, his arm moved.
It came around my waist. It was not gentle. It was firm and deliberate. He pulled me back against his chest. My body went rigid.
He held me there. I was pressed against him, my back to his front. I could feel the solid wall of his chest, the beat of his heart. His legs bent behind mine. He surrounded me.
It was not a lover's embrace. It was a claim. A statement.
His lips brushed my ear. His voice was a low whisper in the dark.
"Your body remembers who owns it," he said. The words were soft, but they were a threat. "It's just your mind that needs reminding."
His hand slid from my waist, flattening possessively over my stomach. He held me there, pinned against him. I could not move.
I stopped breathing. Every muscle in my body was locked tight.
He did not say anything else. He just held me. His breathing stayed slow and steady against my neck.
My mind screamed. My body remembered too much. The warmth of him was familiar. The solid feel of him was a memory I wished I could burn. My skin reacted to his touch even as my soul recoiled.
I lay there, trapped in the circle of his arms. The heat of him seeped into my bones. The silence of the room was broken only by our shared breath.
I waited for him to let go. He didn't.
This was my life now. This bed. These arms. This constant, silent battle between memory and hatred. Between a body that remembered love and a mind that knew only betrayal.
The night stretched on, endless. And he held me the whole time.
Matteo's POV
I worked until my eyes burned. I did it to avoid the bed. To avoid her.
But I could only avoid it for so long.
I finally got up. I turned off the lamp. I went to the bed. She was a small, still shape on her side, facing away. I could tell by her breathing she wasn't asleep.
I lay down. I did not touch her. The inches between us felt like a canyon. I could feel the tension coming off her body. It was a physical force.
I stared at the ceiling. I listened to her breathe. I waited.
Hours passed. Or maybe it was minutes. Time felt strange.
Her breathing finally changed. It slowed. It deepened. The rigid line of her shoulders softened just a little. She was losing her fight against exhaustion.
That's when I moved.
My arm went around her waist. I pulled her back against me. She stiffened immediately. Every muscle in her body locked. She felt like a statue in my arms.
I held her there. She was warm. She fit against me perfectly, like she was made to be there. The feeling was a sweet, bitter agony.
I put my lips close to her ear. I needed her to hear me. To understand the new rules.
"Your body remembers who owns it," I whispered. The words were cruel, but they were the only ones I had. "It's just your mind that needs reminding."
I spread my hand over her stomach. I felt the soft cotton of her sweater, the curve of her body beneath. I held her in place.
She didn't speak. She didn't fight. She just lay there, rigid and silent.
I closed my eyes. Her hair smelled like jasmine. Her body was a familiar comfort in the dark. This was what I wanted. And it felt like a punishment.
I held her all night. I did not sleep. I listened to her breathing. I felt her slowly, reluctantly, relax into the embrace as sleep finally took her. Her body trusted mine, even when her mind did not.
It was a small victory. It felt like a defeat.
When the first gray light of morning touched the windows, I finally moved my arm. I slipped out of bed quietly. I left her sleeping, curled in the space where I had been.
I went to my desk. I sat down. I put my head in my hands.
I had claimed her in the night. I had reminded her body who it belonged to.
But I had also reminded myself. I had held the woman I loved, and she had felt like a captive in my arms. The chemistry between us was still there, a live wire of memory and heat. But it was twisted now. It was a tool of control, not of connection.
I had won the night's battle. I had made my point.
But as I sat there in the quiet dawn, with her asleep in my bed, I knew the war was far from over. And I was no longer sure what winning would even look like.