Page 33 of Bound in Ruin

"Thank you. Tell her I’ll be down in a few minutes," I reply with a gentle smile.

Once the door clicks shut, I move through the motions of my morning routine. I brush my teeth, step into a warm, steaming shower to wash off the lingering haze of sleep, and pick out a simple, elegant dress.

As I make my way down the grand staircase, a small, ridiculous part of me hopes to see Dominic sitting at the head of the long dining table, brooding over his morning coffee. But when I step into the sunlit room, the chair at the head of the table is completely empty.

It’s just Helena, sitting comfortably with a mug in hand, reading through a stack of papers.

"Good morning, Rosalia," Helena greets warmly, offering me a soft, reassuring smile as I take a seat across from her.

"Good morning, Helena," I respond, settling in.

"Did you sleep well?" I ask, reaching for the carafe to pour myself some fresh orange juice.

"I slept wonderfully, thank you," Helena replies, setting her papers aside and taking a slow sip of her coffee. She leans back, her eyes twinkling with a sudden, playful curiosity. "And how was the photoshoot yesterday? I heard the photographer was practically singing your praises."

At the mere mention of yesterday, a sudden, scorching wave of heat rushes straight to my face. My cheekbones burn with a deep, furious blush as memories of Dominic’s heavy hands, his filthy whispers against my ear, and his closeness flood back all at once.

Helena catches the sudden change in my complexion immediately. A broad, knowing smile spreads across her lips, and she gives me a subtle, teasing wink.

"Ah," she chuckles softly, buttering a slice of toast. "That good, hmm?"

"It was... eventful," I manage to choke out, taking a very long sip of my juice to hide behind the glass.

Thankfully, Helena doesn't push the topic any further, sparing me from absolute mortification. As we finish our breakfast, the conversation shifts into an easy, comfortable rhythm. We chat aimlessly about the beautiful weather outside, the size of the estate, and the small, quiet routine she’s kept here over the years.

I actually feel myself relaxing, the tension in my shoulders slowly melting away over light chatter and warm coffee.

After breakfast, I decide to take a walk around the grounds, letting the crisp morning air clear the fog from my head.

As I stroll down the stone pathways, I hate to admit it, but a small part of me is looking for Dominic. Last night spiraled out of control so fast. Between the electric heat at the photoshoot and the horror at the warehouse, we barely had a chance to breathe, let alone talk.

Truthfully, it wasn't even the violent scene that put me off. Maybe it says something twisted about me that seeing a man executed in cold blood didn't leave me trembling in fear. But this is the world I was born into. I have zero delusions about who Dominic Kane is or the brutal empire he commands. I knew what I was signing up for.

What actually stung was the way he snapped at me afterward—cold, harsh, and completely dismissive. All he had to do was apologize for barking at me like a drill sergeant.

Lost in my thoughts, a faint, high-pitched whimper pulls me back to reality. I stop near the edge of the manicured lawn where the high hedges meet the stone perimeter wall. Tucked into a narrow shadow beneath the bushes is a stray dog.

It’s filthy, caked in mud, and shuddering with fear. As I step closer, I notice a nasty scrape along its side, raw and bleeding. There is no way I can just walk away and ignore it.

I drop to my knees, lowering myself to the damp grass, and hold out a gentle hand. "Hey there, little one," I whisper softly.

The dog hesitates, its ears pinned back, before sniffing my fingers. Satisfied that I'm not a threat, its tail begins to thump against the dirt in eager thuds. It scoots out from under the bush, nuzzling its wet snout directly into my palm, practically vibrating with happiness at the sudden attention.

A soft, genuine smile breaks across my face as I gently stroke behind its floppy ears.

Filled with a sudden wave of warmth and affection, I carefully scoop the small, shivering animal into my arms, holding it close to my chest so it doesn't hurt its injured side.

I walk back into the house and hurry upstairs to our bedroom before any of the guards or staff can spot me and spook the nervous dog.

Once safely behind the closed door, I carry the stray straight into the lavish master bathroom. I fill the deep tub with lukewarm water and gently wash away the layers of dirt, caked mud, and dried blood. The dog is surprisingly calm, leaning into my touch and licking my wrists in gratitude as I carefully clean its wound.

When clean, and smelling like expensive soap, I look around for something soft to dry it with. Spotting a pair of Dominic’s dark, folded lounge shorts on the stool, I don't hesitate to grab them, wrapping the damp dog up like a tiny, cozy burrito.

After a few minutes of warm strokes, the dog's eyelids grow heavy. It curls into a tight, soft ball right on the plush rug beside the bed and falls fast asleep.

I step back, my heart practically melting at the sight. I am keeping this dog. No debate, no negotiation.

I make a mental note to ask Dominic if we can go shopping—or send someone out—for all the essential dog gear: a soft bed, a sturdy collar... and what else? A leash? Dog food? Bowls? Some chew toys? I’ve never owned a pet in my entire life, but a strange, thrilling wave of excitement washes over me.