Page 82 of Shattered Oath
"Bella," he breathed. "You're?—"
I silenced him with a kiss.
The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows. The rain drummed against the windows like music. And we moved together, finding our rhythm, building toward something that felt like finally, like home, like everything I'd been searching for without knowing it.
When I finally fell asleep in his arms, the rain was still falling outside. I didn't dream of anything at all.
I didn't need to.
Reality was better than any dream I could have imagined.
16ISABELLE
I woketo the smell of coffee and the sound of someone singing in Italian.
The bed beside me was empty, but the sheets were still warm where he'd been lying. Matteo's pillow held the indent of his head, and I pressed my face into it without thinking, breathing him in—cedar and wine and something uniquely him.
Last night.
The memories washed over me in waves—the rain soaking through our clothes, the cellar with its ancient barrels, his hands learning every curve of me, his mouth everywhere, the way he'd said my name like it was something sacred, something to be cherished. I stretched beneath the covers, my body pleasantly sore in ways that made me smile at the ceiling.
I could get used to this.
I found one of his shirts in the closet, pulled it over my bare skin, and followed the singing downstairs.
The kitchen was flooded with morning light. Matteo stood at the stove, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, flipping something in a pan. He looked up when I entered, and his face split into a grin that made my heart skip.
"Buongiorno, Bella."He crossed the room in three strides and kissed me, long and slow. "Did you sleep well?"
"Mmm." I leaned into him. "Eventually."
"Eventually." His grin widened, eyes dancing with mischief. "I like eventually very much."
He guided me to a stool at the kitchen island, where a cup of coffee was already waiting. I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic, watching him move back to the stove with easy grace.
"What are you making?"
"Frittata. My mother's recipe." He cracked another egg into the bowl. "She taught me when I was twelve. Said every man should know how to cook breakfast for the woman he?—"
The kitchen door opened.
I froze mid-sip.
A woman stood in the doorway. She was small, elegant, with silver-streaked dark hair pulled back in a loose bun and Matteo's warm brown eyes. She wore a simple linen dress the color of olive leaves and carried a woven basket overflowing with ripe tomatoes.
Her gaze moved from Matteo to me. Took in his shirtless state. My bare legs. The obvious implications.
"Mamma." Matteo set down the spatula. "I didn't know you were coming by."
"Clearly." But she was smiling, something warm and knowing in her expression. Her eyes landed on me again, assessing but not unkind. "You must be Isabelle."
She knew my name.
"I—yes." I tugged at the hem of Matteo's shirt, painfully aware of how little I was wearing, how exposed I was. "It's lovely to meet you,SignoraRossi."
"Elena,per favore." She set the basket on the counter and crossed the room toward me. "And none of thisSignorabusiness. We're not formal here."
I braced myself for awkwardness. For pointed questions, suspicious looks, the protective scrutiny of a mother meeting her son's new... whatever I was.
