Three days without seeing Mateo felt like slow suffocation. I should have been relieved—no intense stares, no commanding voice making my thighs clench, no risk of him noticing the fading green-yellow bruise around my left eye or the scabbed cut on my lip. But relief never came. Instead I caught myself missing him. The way his dark eyes locked on mine like I was the only thing in the room. The low rumble of “Angioletto” that always sent heat straight between my body. The brush of his fingers when he tucked hair behind my ear. The way he kissed me like he was starving and I was the only thing...