Page 37 of Bound in Ruin

I jump slightly as Dominic strides straight through the open bathroom door, his hair dripping wet, completely unbothered by my lack of privacy. "I've been watching you struggle back and forth through the mirror for two minutes," he mutters smoothly.

What? Did I not shut the door?

Before I can protest or push his hands away, he steps up directly behind me. The sudden, searing heat of his bare chest radiates against my exposed back.

His large, calloused fingers brush against my skin as he gently takes hold of the pull-tab. But as he pulls the fabric taut, the slide of his knuckles uncovers a jagged, pale scar running along my shoulder blade.

I instantly freeze, my breath catching tightly in my throat.

No!

This is the exact reason I wear high-backed dresses. Why I cover up from the world. I don't want anyone looking at the physical evidence of my past, asking invasive questions, or worse—offering me sick, suffocating pity.

Especially not Dominic.

I brace myself, tense and motionless, waiting for the heavy silence to break. Waiting for him to ask what happened, who did it, or give me a look of tragic sympathy.

Instead, Dominic says nothing.

His fingers don't waver. Without a single pause, a question, or a change in his breath, he smoothly pulls the zipper all the way to the top of my neck, metal teeth closing over the mark completely.

He rests his hands on my shoulders for a brief, heavy second, meeting my wide, guarded eyes in the bathroom mirror.

"I'll be waiting downstairs," he says quietly, turning on his heel and walking out, leaving my dignity—and my secrets—completely intact.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DOMINIC

I’m so fucking livid I can barely see two feet in front of me.

There was a scar on her back.

A long, jagged line carved into her skin... and another near her waist.

Those aren't from some childhood accident. They aren't from a clumsy fall. The alternative—the sickening, grotesque reality of what actually caused them—literally makes me see red.

Fuck.

I wanted to demand answers right then and there. I wanted to shake her until she gave me every name attached to those marks. But the second my hand brushed near them, I felt the way she froze. Her entire body had turned to stone, waiting for me to pry, waiting for me to pity her.

If I had pushed, I would have burned down whatever fragile bridge we’d just built in that garage.

But I’m not letting this go. Not a fucking chance.

Pulling out my phone, I text Keane three words: My office. Now.

By the time I reach my study, my pulse is hammering against my ribs like a war drum. I don't even bother with a glass, pouring a heavy splash of straight vodka into a crystal tumbler and slamming it back.

The heavy wooden door opens, and Keane strolls in, pulling an unlit cigarette from behind his ear. "Sup?"

I don't waste time with small talk. "I’m going with Rosalia to this meeting with Dante at one."

"Alright. I’ll brief the guard detail," Keane nods, leaning against the edge of the mahogany desk.

"Before we leave," I cut in, my voice dropping an octave, laced with a lethal edge. "Do we know if Luciano was hitting her?"

Keane pauses, his casual posture instantly vanishing. He frowns, his brows drawing together as he shakes his head slowly.