Chapter 91 After the Storm
Valentina
“Rosco,” Matteo said.
“On it,” came the reply.
That was all.
No chaos. No shouting. No blood-curdling aftermath. Just the quiet efficiency of men who knew how to clean up death like it was dust on marble.
Matteo stepped toward me, closing the space that had been thick with smoke and violence only moments ago.
His hands reached for mine.
Gentle.
Deliberate.
Not like a man afraid of what I’d done—but like one who understood exactly what it cost me to do it.
“Let me see,” he murmured.
I didn’t flinch when his fingers touched mine. I didn’t pull back.
I let him unwrap the first hand, then the other—slow and careful, as if the gauze was made of gold leaf and breath.
He turned my hands over in his palms, inspecting them like they were precious artifacts. His jaw tightened when he saw the swelling starting across my knuckles, but there were no splits. No blood.
“You wrap tight,” he said softly, thumb brushing across the back of my hand. “No broken skin. That’s a solid job, princess.”
A quiet breath left me. I hadn’t even realized I was holding it.
“But you’re gonna bruise,” he added. “Let’s get you home. Ice. Water. Something for that head.”
I just nodded.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t need to.
He led me to the ladder and climbed up behind me, one hand always close enough to catch, to steady, to protect.
By the time we reached the car, the night felt thicker.
He opened the passenger door without a word. I slid in, and he closed it gently behind me, like I was made of glass instead of bone.
Not once—not once—had he said a word while I was working Luca over.
He hadn’t stopped me. Hadn’t stepped in. Hadn’t blinked.
He’d let me be dangerous.
And now he was treating me like I might shatter.
Somehow, that made sense.
Somehow, I was okay with it.
The drive was quiet.
No music. No small talk. Just the steady hum of the engine and the fading fire in my veins. My heartbeat had slowed, but the ache in my hands was impossible to ignore. They throbbed with each pulse—dull, hot, relentless.
My face hurt, too. The pain from earlier blooming behind my eyes now, made worse by the adrenaline wearing off. Every breath felt like it echoed inside my skull.
But his hand was there.
Matteo’s palm, warm and grounding, resting on my thigh like a promise.
He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t stroke.
Just held me.
Held me in the way that said I saw what you did. I still want you. I still choose you.
By the time we made it to my room, everything ached.
My hands. My face. My soul.
Matteo didn’t say a word as he led me into the bathroom, but his grip was firm. Steady. Like he was holding me together by sheer force of will.
He stopped at the edge of the rug and looked me over, eyes dark but warm.
“Come on,” he said, voice low. “Let’s get you in the shower.”
He turned on the water, adjusting the temperature until it steamed. The sound of it hitting tile filled the silence, soothing in a way nothing else had been all night.
“I’ll wash your hair,” he added, glancing at my hands. “Unless you’re keen on punching yourself in the scalp.”
That earned a soft laugh from me. Tired, but real.
“You’re hilarious,” I muttered.
“I try.”
His fingers brushed the hem of my shirt. “Arms up.”
I obeyed.
He stripped me slowly. Gently. Like every piece of clothing mattered. Like it deserved respect for protecting me, even if only a little. Once I was bare, he shed his own shirt and stepped in behind me, pulling the door closed.
“Just stand there,” he said, reaching for the shampoo. “I’ve got you.”
I closed my eyes and let the heat soak into my bones.
He worked the shampoo through my hair with slow, strong fingers, rubbing circles across my scalp like he was massaging away every cruel thought I’d ever had. Every bruise. Every lingering ghost.
I didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t need to.
When he rinsed the lather away, he picked up the loofah, lathered it with body wash, and stepped closer—so close I could feel the heat of his chest against my back.
The loofah swept over my collarbone.
His other hand followed.
Not with the same pressure. Not with the same purpose.
While one hand cleaned me, the other… explored.
His palm pressed suds over my breast. Just once. Just enough to make me catch my breath. Not lingering, not aggressive.
Just a quiet graze.
He didn’t comment. Didn’t smirk.
Just kept moving—down my ribs, over my stomach.
Then he knelt.
In the shower. For me.
He lifted my leg gently, resting my foot on his knee like he’d done it a hundred times before. No hesitation. No leer.
Just care.
He washed each leg slowly, reverently, like every inch of me deserved attention—even the parts most men forgot.
When he stood, he squeezed the loofah once, letting a heavy foam pool in his other hand.
That hand slid between my thighs, cupping me with soap-slick fingers.
It wasn’t clinical.
It wasn’t lustful either.
It was reverent. Quietly sensual. The kind of touch that said this is mine—without the need to prove it.
He cleaned me carefully, making sure no part of me went ignored.
And still… he didn’t linger.
When he was done, he reached for the handheld sprayer and began rinsing every inch of me with warm, pulsing water—between my toes, across my back, down the tender curve of my inner thighs.
Between my legs.
I shifted slightly, instinctively… and immediately regretted it.
The first flicker of arousal sparked low in my belly, but it couldn’t catch. I was too sore. Too tired. Too hollow.
We stepped out of the shower and he dried me with slow, careful hands.
He slid one of his oversized T-shirts over my head—soft, black, worn at the collar—and I didn’t even fight it. It smelled like him. Like smoke and cedarwood and salt air. Like home.
Then he reached for the panties.
I shook my head.
“No,” I muttered, stepping back. “I’m skipping those.”
His brow lifted. “Why?”
“Because,” I said, lifting one bruised knuckle to point at the bathroom. “I don’t want to wrestle cotton and elastic at three in the morning when I have to pee.”
“And no,” I added, leveling a look at him, “that’s not an invitation for you to find your way into my pussy in the middle of the night.”
A dark, dangerous flicker lit up his eyes—like a warning. Or a promise.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he said.
But that look?
Said absolutely, he fucking would.
I rolled my eyes. “Uh-huh.”
He didn’t argue. Just helped me into bed like I was something precious. Like I hadn’t broken skin with my fists tonight. Like I wasn’t still humming with adrenaline and rage.
He pulled the covers up, tucked them around my shoulders, then took both ice packs and gently laid them over my hands—one by one.