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Losin' it.
Upon Gemma's arrival, a tiny flicker of sanity came back to him. She said his name and he turned his head to look, concern flashing through his eyes at the sight of her bloodied ears. "...Gemma, what-" But of course, he couldn't finish. Anatole bristled and questioned and the tone in his voice was one Matteo knew all too well. He snapped his gaze back over to the wolf, but that sanity was very quickly fading. The expression was dangerous, daring the wolf to even suggest such a disgusting thing, urging him to give the coydog a reason to sink his teeth in.
He hated many things in that moment; the thin, lanky, worn appearance Gemma wore again, the fear in her gaze, the way it seemed as if he were the bad guy, the abuser. He hated that it was untrue, that he loved her, that he'd do anything for her. He hated that she felt he was frightening, that Anatole was probably looking at him as if he were a sadistic bastard. What he hated the most, though, was that he was losing control. A lifetime of pain and torture, so long had he ignored it... and now it was becoming too much for him. Matteo Trovato was losing control and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
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