Matteo didn't see the living room walls. He didn't see Nico or the men lunging at Claudia. All he thought about was the red bloom expanded across Anastasia's back, the vintage wood floor vanished, replaced by the memory of a cold marble floor from years ago.
Not again. He was a boy again, watching his mother's life leak into the ground. The same smell of betrayal, the same sudden, hollow silence.
Anastasia's groans were the only thing keeping him in the present. He realized then, with a sickening jolt, that he wasn't just protecting her because he owned her.
He was protecting the only thing that made him feel human, even if he had to break her to keep her. She was the first thing he could call his.
He lunged for the first aid kit in the bathroom. His hands, usually steady enough to pull a trigger at three hundred yards, were trembling.
He turned her on her belly. He soaked a thick chunk of cotton wool with methylated spirit and placed it on the wound.
