Matthew liked to think that he approached most things in life calmly.
When Matthew crashed during a race, he did an assessment for injuries. When the crash was his fault, he apologized to his team. Matthew laughed when he spilled his coffee, took Benedict's mocking with a smile, and he never raised his voice when his mother wheedled him about finding a nice girl and settling down.
Yes.
Matthew Carr was a calm person.
But he was not calm now.
Matthew watched, slowly crushing two paper cups, as Lucas Walsh shoved his girlfriend against a metal railing and kissed her. Really kissed her. A feverish, desperate kiss, one that said, this is my girl and I'm claiming her. This would have been enough to piss Matthew off.
But Matthew was really, really pissed off as he watched Isla struggle.
She clawed at Walsh's chest, kicking and scratching, a feral cat backed into a corner. It was clear that she didn't want to be kissing Lucas. But Isla was small, and she might as well have been trying to push a semi-truck off her.
Well.
Matthew wasn't small.
And he would enjoy destroying Lucas Walsh.
"Oi!" he called. "Walsh!"
Lucas turned.
Matthew punched him in the face.
Delicious pain radiated up his forearm. Lucas staggered back, his face a comical portrait (Study in Shock, Oil on Canvas). Matthew wound up again. The second hit was harder, faster. Lucas smacked into the railing, red peppering his shirt. Blood.
"What the fuck," Lucas snarled.
Matthew seized his collar. He hauled the other boy up until he was dangling over the edge, his face tipped towards the water. Lucas's breathing grew fast. Panicked. Matthew was dimly aware of Isla saying his name, of the frenzied excitement of a gathering crowd, but he didn't care. His entire brain had shut down.
"Apologize to my girlfriend, Walsh," Matthew said calmly, "or I'm feeding you to the sharks."
Lucas grunted, clawing at his arm. Matthew tightened his grip, a chilling rage flooding every limb in his body. Every bone. Every cell.
"Oh, dear." Matthew clucked his tongue. "Was I not loud enough for you?" He shoved Lucas's head further down. "Apologize. To. Isla."
"Carr!" Someone yanked at him. "Stop it."
Matthew shook them off. "Apologize, you bastard!"
Lucas laughed. The sound ignited something, and Matthew began to shake him, rattling Walsh so hard that his teeth clenched together. Fuck the water. He'd kill him right here, on this boat. He'd strangle him. He—
"Carr!"
Strong hands hoisted him back. Noah. His face was unusually serious, his signature baseball cap slightly askew. Nearby, Cedro was apologizing to Monty in a low voice — "we'll pay for any damage, I'm so sorry" — and it was such a Cedro-like thing to do that Matthew would have found it funny if he didn't want to currently burn down the world.
"Let go of me!" Matthew snarled, jerking back. "I want to—"
"I know what you want to do," Noah said. "Trust me." His eyes were dark. "But you're causing a scene."
"Isla—"
"Needs you," Noah finished. "She needs you, Matt."
Isla.
He spun around. Isla was standing a little apart from the crowd, rubbing one arm. Her red hair was tangled and her angel wings were drooping. Her halo was gone entirely. Matthew took a step toward her, and she flinched.
I'll kill him, Matthew thought. I swear to God, I'll smash that bastard's face in.
Matthew forced himself to approach slowly. Made his voice gentle. "Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
"I'm okay," Isla whispered.
But she wasn't okay. Anyone with eyes could see that. Matthew glanced around warily before tugging her into a quiet corner, using his body like a human shield. The last thing he wanted was for Isla's face to be on gossip websites.
"You didn't want to kiss him." It wasn't a question. "I saw you, Isla."
"I'm okay," Isla repeated. "Really."
"The way he was touching you..." Matthew looked away. "God, I feel sick."
"You're bleeding," she said softly.
Matthew started. She was right; his forearm was marred with angry scratches. He turned over his wrist, wondering at the damage. It looked like Matthew owned a feral cat. A feral cat that he'd forgotten to feed for a week.
"I didn't even feel them," he said truthfully.
"Come on." Isla stretched out a hand. "Let's go to the hotel. I'll clean you up."
Isla insisted on driving, and Matthew didn't stop her. He sensed that it reassured her somehow, gave her control over some part of her life. Gear shift. Pedal. Brake. Repeat. Her hands were shaking, but her voice was steady as they drove. She explained what happened, starting with when Matthew left.
By the time they reached the hotel, Matthew was once again borderline homicidal.
Still, Matthew managed to follow her up the lift and to their room. It was darker than their previous one — all chestnut wood and books and a crackling fire, more of a Victorian lord's study than a room — and Isla directed him to a leather chair. Then, to his amazement, she pulled out a medical kit.
He stared. "Do you just carry that around?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why not?" Isla pulled out a tube of paste. "It's good to be prepared." She uncapped the lid. "This will sting a bit."
"I'll be fine," he grunted.
She was right; it did sting. A lot. Matthew gritted his teeth, wondering if Isla had just applied the seventh circle of Hell to his arm. Isla smiled as she recapped the tube, as if she could guess his thoughts.
"Alek's going to be so mad at you," Isla said.
"I don't care."
She took out a roll of bandages. "Will he punish you?"
"I don't see how he can." Matthew rubbed at his eyes. "He needs me to compete tomorrow. And even if he does punish me, I don't give a flying fuck." His voice hardened. "Walsh deserved it. That, and more."
Isla took out a pair of scissors. "Don't do anything stupid tomorrow."
"Like what?"
"Like running Lucas off the track." Isla paused, the scissors hovering over the bandage. "Promise me, Matthew."
His throat tightened. "I can't."
"Promise me," she repeated.
"Fine," Matthew said reluctantly. "I promise."
"Thank-you." She blew out a breath, snipping the bandage. "Nothing good ever happens in Monaco, does it?"
"Don't be absurd. My favourite film was shot in Monaco."
She set the scissors down. "That Fast and Furious movie?"
"No," Matthew said mildly. "Monte Carlo starring Selena Gomez. A rare cinematic masterpiece; I can't believe more people haven't seen it."
Her lips twitched. "You're ridiculous."
Isla knelt in front of him, drawing his arm gently towards her. Matthew's breath caught in his chest. His heart was pounding, hot blood rushing through him, but the anger was fading away; it was being replaced by something else. Something more dangerous.
Isla, of course, had no idea the direction that his thoughts had taken.
She nibbled her lip, looping the bandage around his arm. Her hands were tantalizingly soft. Matthew couldn't stop himself from wondering what those hands would feel like elsewhere. Tugging and pulling and coaxing.
Stop it, Matt, he told himself firmly. You'll scare her.
His body didn't want to listen.
"There," Isla said, straightening. "All done." She turned around, putting the bandages back in the case. "You'll live, I think."
Matthew swallowed. Not if you're wearing that nightgown to bed.
"Excellent," he said hoarsely.
Matthew didn't bother to wait up while Isla brushed her teeth. Maybe he could be asleep, Matthew thought hopefully, when she came to bed; maybe he wouldn't have to see her in a state of undress. But he was still awake when Isla crawled in beside him, smelling of citrus and honey and all things delicious.
At least she was wearing flannel pajamas tonight.
That was a godsend.
Isla tugged out her ponytail. "Goodnight, Matt."
"Night, Red."
She flicked the lamp. Matthew rolled on to his back, listening to their breathing in the darkness. A thought occurred to him.
"Isla?"
"Yes?"
"When Walsh kissed you..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Would you have kissed him back? If he had approached things differently?"
Isla was silent for a long time.
"I don't know," she said finally, and Matthew felt the admission like a punch to the gut. "But I do know one thing."
"What?"
He could hear her smile. "I'm really lucky to have you in my life, Matthew Carr."
Matthew woke up to his alarm.
Grey light washed over the room, watery as thin tea. Isla groaned in protest, tangling herself in the bedsheets, her red hair blooming like some strange, exotic flower. He shaved and dressed quickly, pulling on trackies and a t-shirt. When Matthew emerged from the bathroom, Isla was still asleep.
"Isla?" he whispered.
"Mmm?"
He crouched next to the bed. "I dreamt that I was a glass bottle at the bottom of the sea. I had a message inside of me. A love letter. I was waiting for someone to find me."
"Sounds romantic." She smiled sleepily. "I'm going to come watch you race later."
Matthew couldn't help the way his heart warmed. That terrifying, fragile glow. "Don't miss the beginning. It's always the best part."
"No." Isla yawned. "The end will be the best part."
"And why's that?"
"Because, silly," she said, "you're going to win it."
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