Chapter 114 Ruined Preferences
Matteo
She came for me.
Stormed in like a firestarter, lips painted the same color as every warning sign I ignored for her.
And when she said the words—“I’m his wife”—every goddamn person in the room knew she wasn’t lying.
She meant it.
I wanted to hate her for it.
Wanted to tell her to turn around and go back to whatever version of the truth she thought she knew, because I was done being someone’s game board.
But then she danced for me.
Stripped down in front of half the fucking club, eyes locked to mine like I was the only god she’d ever worship. Moved for me like I was her altar.
And that was it.
Every lie. Every betrayal. Every reason I should’ve left her right where she stood—
Gone.
Like ash in a storm.
She fucked me like she was still mine. Like she’d never stopped being mine. Like the entire world didn’t exist outside the heat between her thighs and my name on her tongue.
And now?
Now she was tucked into the crook of my arm, skin still flushed, hair a mess, heartbeat pounding beneath that fragile sternum like it was echoing mine.
She didn’t speak as I zipped my pants and straightened my jacket. Didn’t ask me what I was thinking, didn’t press or push or plead.
Because she already knew.
She’d fucking won again.
I loved her.
I hated how easy it was to admit that when she was riding me like salvation. I hated that she could still make me feel seventeen again—like loyalty was earned in orgasms and forever could be promised with a kiss.
But I also knew better.
I could love her and still not trust her.
I could want to spend my life inside her and still keep one eye on the knife she might hide behind her back.
The woman was a masterpiece. But even masterpieces had forgeries.
And I had to be sure.
We stepped out of the VIP room. Heads turned. No one said a word.
I dared them to.
Rosco was leaning against the bar, drink in hand, his usual shit-eating grin spreading across his face like a man who’d just watched a car crash he couldn’t look away from.
“Damn,” he drawled. “Y’all redecorate the VIP? I thought I heard walls crying.”
“Come on,” I said, brushing past him. “Let’s go.”
Rosco raised a brow. “Seriously? I was just starting to have some fun.”
“You can have your fun later,” I muttered. “Right now, take me and my wife home.”
Valentina didn’t say anything, but she pressed just a little closer into my side.
Good.
She should stay close.
Because even if I couldn’t trust her right now—
I sure as fuck wasn’t ready to let her go.
Not when she’d just reminded me that I didn’t want to be owned by anything in this world…
Except maybe her.
I didn’t say a word the whole drive back.
Neither did she.
She kept her hand on my thigh like she thought it still belonged there. Like claiming me in public was enough to erase the reason I walked into that club in the first place.
It wasn’t.
But damned if I didn’t let her keep it there.
The second we got inside, I led her straight to her suite—my hand pressed low on her back, guiding her like she was still mine to command.
Because she was.
She stepped into the room, looking over her shoulder as I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over the back of her chair.
Her voice was small, careful. “You’re staying with me?”
I caught the hesitation in her tone. The surprise.
She hadn’t expected that.
Not after everything.
I unbuttoned my cuffs, rolled my sleeves to my forearms. “Not exactly.”
She blinked. “Then…?”
I nodded toward the couch. “I’m not sleeping in my room. But I’m not sleeping with you either.”
Her brows drew together.
“I’m still fucking pissed,” I said flatly. “I don’t want to be next to you right now. But like a fucking idiot in love—I don’t want to be too far from you either.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
But she didn’t argue.
Didn’t fight.
She just nodded once, quiet and understanding, and disappeared into the bedroom without a word.
I collapsed onto the couch. Stared at the ceiling.
Sleep didn’t come.
It never fucking does when the one person who makes me feel like home is also the one person I can’t fully trust.
Somewhere around two a.m., I heard the door creak open.
My whole body went still.
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just kept breathing slow and silent while my hand slipped behind the couch cushion and curled around the grip of the gun I kept tucked there.
She was tiptoeing.
Soft.
Too soft.
What the fuck was she doing?
I listened as she crept closer, every instinct screaming to turn around and demand answers. But I didn’t.
I waited.
And then—
The soft thump of a pillow hitting the floor.
The rustle of a blanket being unfurled.
I turned my head just enough to glance down—
And there she was.
Curled up on the floor beside the couch.
Like a goddamn puppy kicked out of its bed.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered under my breath.
She was already closing her eyes. Not saying a word. Not trying to make a point or pull some dramatic stunt. Just… being near me. Because that’s where she wanted to be.
Because being near me—even on the floor—felt safer than being alone in her bed.
I stared at her.
At the mess of her hair. The small rise and fall of her breath.
I could’ve told her to get back in bed.
Could’ve lifted her into my arms and held her like I wanted to.
But I didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Because I didn’t trust myself not to forgive her too easily.
Not yet.
So I just laid there.
And let her fall asleep beside me on the floor.
Still pissed.
Still protective.
Still fucking hers.