Sleep comes for him slow, dragging down his body piece by piece, yet he still doesn’t let go. Even unconscious, his arms stay locked around me, like instinct knows what his mind dreads. That I’m already halfway gone.
I study him in the dark. This version of him—stripped of armor, bloodlines, and inherited violence—carries a strange softness, a flicker of something untouched.
But we were never free.
We were born with leashes braided into our spines, raised as pawns in legacies steeped in blood. In this mansion, even the air tastes of iron and control, every breath another chain fastened long before I had the words to resist.
I need answers. What they did to me while I was unconscious. Why my blood runs wrong in my veins. Why my parents had to die, and why I was chosen. Most of all, whether anything in my life was ever mine to claim.
Dom murmurs something in his sleep—my name, I think—and I press closer, breathing him in as if it might be the last time. I let myself remember the comfort of being held by someone who could love every fractured piece of me, no matter how sharp the edges. But love isn’t enough anymore, not when survival demands surrender, and staying would turn us into weapons aimed at each other.
Sunlight slips through theblackout curtains, gilding the disarray of Dom’s room in gold. Glass vials litter his desk—some clear, others inky as obsidian—ghosts of sleepless nights spent refining concoctions. The familiar scent of incense and chemical residue clings to the air. Once, it meant safety.Home.
His shirt from last night lies discarded near an overflowing ashtray. Three half-drained whiskey bottles flank the nightstand, near a leather-bound ledger scrawled with his restless handwriting of drug formulas crammed between Pit betting slips and bloodstained profit margins.
Dom breathes steadily behind me, warm exhale brushing my nape. I shift, testing the grip around my waist, but his arm tightens with unconscious urgency. A broken whimper escapes him and my body folds instinctively into his. It remembers what my mind is trying to forget.
“Stay,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. His palm slides over my stomach. “Just a few more minutes.”
I close my eyes, imprinting the warmth of him, and the steady thud of his heart against my back. Even as my mind screams retreat, my treacherousbody craves him.
Grief claws up my throat as I remember when he was my center, my anchor. When each morning I woke to his heartbeat and believed we were untouchable, certain that whatever waited beyond the walls, we would face it together. Now every beat echoes with a lie I helped build.
“Morning,” he breathes, lips grazing my neck. The curve of his mouth presses into my skin as I shiver. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I lie, shifting slightly. His arm tightens, unwilling to give space.
“Good.” Dom’s hand slips beneath my shirt. “Because I missed you.” Each word is punctuated with a kiss along my shoulder, up my neck, behind my ear.
“Dom—” My protest frays when his teeth graze the sensitive skin below my ear. His other hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head to expose more of my throat. Heat blooms insidious and familiar as his fingers skim the edge of my breast.
“Let me take care of you.” The words vibrate against my throat. His hand grows bolder, thumb circling my nipple until it pebbles, until I can’t breathe through the ache. “Let me show you how much I need you.”
I should stop this. Should pull away, maintain distance. But his hands speak in a language I once understood better than my own thoughts. Countless mornings tangled in these sheets, his touch charting every inch of me like territory he’d die defending.
He shifts, thigh sliding between mine, and my hips move of their own accord, drawn to the friction, a moan slips out of me.
“Fuck, I missed that sound,” he mutters against my throat. He grinds his thigh higher, dragging a gasp from me as my nails dig into his shoulders.
“I need a shower,” I rasp, though my hips betray me, rolling against the pressure.
“Perfect.” He flips me fully beneath him, muscles taut as he brackets my body. His eyes, storm-lit and hungry, pin me in place. “I’ll help you.” One hand glides down my side, anchoring my thighs around his waist.
The hard length of him presses against me, a slow grind that makes my breath catch. He ruts once, deliberate, and the friction sparks through me so sharp I bite my lip to hold in the sound clawing up my throat. His face is so close I can see the tiny scar above his brow, and the way the morning light turns his pale skin almost golden. Then his mouth claims mine—heat and teeth, tongue stroking like he means to devour—and for a moment I drown in it, in him. His hand slips beneath the waistband of my shorts, and reality slams back.
Each kiss, each touch, is a debt I’m accruing. A wound I’ll have to carve out later.
“Dom.” I press both hands to his chest, ignoring how my fingers want to curl into his skin instead. “I need a few minutes alone.”
“Why?” His grip catches my wrist and he brings it to his lips, mouth brushing each knuckle with devotion.
I try to pull away, but he pins my wrist above my head, lacing our fingers together. His other palm still traces slow patterns along my hip.
“Stop running,” he whispers, forehead pressed to mine. “Whatever it is—whatever’s scaring you—let me help.”
For a moment, I almost do. Almost give him everything. Then he cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek with such tender possession, and I remember why I can’t. His love is a chain, his protection a cage, and what burns in my blood now won’t be contained.
“Dom,” I say quietly, turning away from his mouth before he can steal the words. “You need to stop hovering.”
