The drunk man’s mouth works, blood bubbling between his lips. "S-sorry."
"Not to me." Dom's voice was ice. "To her."
The drunk's one good eye finds me where I remain frozen in my seat, unable to look away, and I see fear. Like real, primal terror. The kind of fear you only feel when you realize you've fucked with the wrong person, when you understand that you might actually die here on this sticky bar floor surrounded by people who wouldn't lift a finger to help you. As crazy as it sounds, I have to stop myself from laughing.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles through broken teeth. "I'm sorry…please…"
Dom looks at me, and the question in his eyes is clear.Enough? Or should I keep going?
I guess I should say no, tell him to stop and that the man has had enough, and has learned his lesson, that this has gone too far already. But when I open my mouth, what comes out is the complete opposite.
"He grabbed me pretty hard. My wrist still hurts," I say, and I’m aware I’m unintentionally pouting. What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t have time to dissect this side of me because I’m too occupied watching the demonic and satisfied look that flickers across Dom's face. Without questioning my response, he looks back down at the drunk, still gripping his hair, and smiles.
"You heard her. Gotta do what the lady wants."
The sound of the drunk's wrist breaking is sharp and clean, like a branch snapping. His scream is high pitched, echoing off the walls before Dom lets him drop on the dirty floor. He collapses in a heap, cradling his shattered wrist, sobbing.
Dom stands up slowly without a care in the world, like he didn't just beat a man half to death. He looks around the bar, first at the bartender who stands behind the counter, then at the handful of other patrons who'd watched the whole thing without intervening, then at the blood splattered across the floor.
"Anyone else want to bother her?" he asks conversationally, but is met with silence.
"Good."
He walks over to my booth, his knuckles split and bleeding, and holds out his hand. I stare at it for a second, looking at the blood, at the evidence of what he'd just done, and the choice he was offering me.
This was the moment. Take his hand and accept what he is. What we are. Or walk away and pretend this never happened.
Of course I take his hand, as who wouldn’t at that romantic display?
His fingers close around mine, warm and solid and wet with someone else's blood, and he pulls me to my feet. I grab my sketchbook and bag with my free hand, leaving the half-eaten burger and warm water behind. My legs feel unsteady, my whole body buzzing with adrenaline and something else, it’s something that’s hot and electric, pooling low in my stomach.
I'd just watched him break a man for touching me. And I'd liked it, no, I loved it.
We walk out of the bar together, his hand still gripping mine, and nobody tries to stop us. The cool night air hits my face and I suck in a breath, trying to clear my head, processing what has just happened.
Dom leads me to my van where I left it parked in the shadows at the edge of the lot. His car is there too, black and sleek, parked two spaces away.
"You were watching the whole time."
"I’ll always be watching you."
“This is it, isn’t it?” I ask, and he moves me closer to him, tugging at my hand.
"No turning back now. You're exactly what I thought you were. What I hoped you were," he says.
My breath catches as I drown in those brown eyes.
"What's that?"
"Mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should've set off every alarm bell, that he couldn't just decide I belonged to him. But I'd just watched him break a man's bones for touching me. I’d watched him turn violence into something that felt like devotion.
"Your knuckles are bleeding," I say quietly, looking down at his hand that’s clasping mine.
He looks down at his hands, at the split skin and blood. "It’s fine."
"You should clean them."
