Each accidental touch feels like a betrayal. Not because Rafe and I have defined anything, but because somethinginside mealready has. We’ve onlyreallykissed once, and still, the thought of another man’s leg touching mine feels like disloyalty in its rawest form. Then another memory hits, Dominik’s hands spreading my thighs, the pressure as he entered me, I feel it now like a phantom ache and swallow, going a little breathless at the intrusion to my mind.
Dominik sees the blush creep along my cheeks, his lips twitch, amusement flickering in his eyes. He leans back, casual, smug in that still way of his. It’s like he’s inside my head, like he knows exactly what I’m remembering. The embarrassment prickles under my skin. Before I can say anything, Zosia breaks the spell. She slides off her chair andraces around the table, holding up a page from her coloring book, a kaleidoscope of color and chaos.
“Auntie Kasia, look! I made it for you. Do you like it?”
I take it from her, smiling.“ I love it, Zosia. It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks!” she says with a grin of triumph, then looks at Dominik. “I should make one for Mama when she comes to my birthday, Tatus!”
He smiles softly and kisses her on the head. “Yes,you should, kochanie. She’ll love it.”
The sadness pulls at me for this little girl, who loves with her whole heart, who still believes every parent shows up when they say they will. I do it before I think. My hand finds Dominik’s and I squeeze it gently, then he squeezes back. The motion draws attention instantly. Piotr elbows Aga and jerks his chin toward us, a silentlook who’s back on. My face burns, and I pull my hand away too late.
“Ah,” Piotr says with a grin, leaning back. “So we’re all playing nice again, are we?”
“Piotr, leave them be.” Mama warns, though she’s smiling too.
“Just saying,” he adds. “The blood man might have some competition if our Dominik here plays his cards right.”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth.
“Blood man?” Dominik repeats, arching a brow, amused. “Isthatwhat we’re calling him now?”
Natalia replies while organizing her tea into something photo-worthy in angle. “It's what Piotr calls Obelus since he hit Haima. All the blood that gushed out of his nose. The altar. Makes sense. Good job Piotr, you did something right.” She gives a small nod of approval.
He turns to me, eyes narrowing just slightly, though his smile stays easy. “I heard about that. Were you there to see it?”
Every conversation in the room fades into background static. I shake my head, keeping my tone neutral. “I was on my flight back. Seemed eventful, glad I missed it.”
“Eventful,” Piotr repeats, grinning." That’s one word for it. Wonder if it was as impressive in person as it looked online. The guy nearly K.O'ed him in the middle of a hotel lobby. So much blood, he broke his nose for sure. He’s gotfucking balls!”
Mama tuts at Piotr for his language. He gives her a sheepish look.
Dominik studies me over his glass of water, calm, almost detached. “Did he say what made him snap, yourfriend?”
My throat tightens. The way he says the word friend is meant as a jab. I picture Rafe’s face in that moment, the flash of fury that wasn’t about pride or control, it was about me. Haima had pushed him all weekend and finally he broke.
“Something personal,” I say finally, setting my fork down. “Someone he didn’t want Haima to talk about.”
Tata makes a thoughtful sound. “Ah. A man defending someone, then.”
“Exactly,” Piotr says, nodding as if the conversation needs his approval. “I’m telling you, I like the guy more now. A man’s gotta defend what matters to him, or he’sworthless.”
Dominik glances at me when Piotr says it, his expression unreadable. The look sits somewhere between curiosity and something darker. The table carries on around us, laughter and chatter filling every pause, but under it, my pulse won’t steady. I push my food around my plate, pretending to listen to Natalia brag about her follower count. Dominik reaches for the bread basket, his sleeve brushing my arm, a test, but I don’t lean into it.
When dinner finally ends, the noise lingers. Plates scrape, Zosia sings a tune while stacking spoons, and Tata insists on pouring everyoneanother round of tea despite half the table trying to leave. Mama calls for help with dishes, and I’m the first to stand, grateful for the excuse.
I roll up my sleeves and start rinsing plates, letting the water run too long just to have something to focus on. I hear him before he speaks, his voice that easy calm he always wears like armor.
“Need a hand?”
I don’t have to turn to know it’s him. “I’ve got it,” I say, but he’s already next to me, reaching for a towel. We work in silence for a while. The weight of everything unspoken stretches thin between us. The air feels warm, close and humid.
“You didn’t tell us much about your trip,” he says eventually, his tone too casual to be harmless.
“Nothing to tell.”
He dries another plate, then he leans against the counter beside me, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes fixed on mine.
