Page 43 of Bound in Ruin

Without waiting for a response, he pushes off the vanity counter and stalks out of the bathroom into the bedroom.

I scoop the soft, wiggling pup into my arms and follow right behind him. Dominic is standing by the foot of the bed, unbuttoning his grease-stained shirt, looking thoroughly annoyed.

"Come on," I say, stepping into his line of sight and holding the dog up slightly. "Help me name him."

"Absolutely not," he barks, tossing his shirt onto a chair. "I don't give a fuck what you call him."

"Okay," I say thoughtfully, nodding to myself. "I'll just stick with Dom, then."

Dominic snaps his head toward me, glaring with enough heat to melt steel. "Fine! Name the noisy, annoying little thing Yapper!"

A bright laugh escapes me. I look down at the puppy, who licks my chin right on cue. "Yapper... actually, that's surprisingly sweet. Yapper it is."

Just as he’s about to say something else, a firm knock echoes through the heavy oak door.

We both walk toward it, Yapper trotting right at my heels. Dominic pulls the door open to reveal Keane standing in the hallway. A wide, shocked smile instantly breaks across his face as his eyes drop down to the furry intruder standing between us.

"Who owns the dog?" Keane asks, utterly stunned.

"It’s mine," I say proudly, scooping the puppy back up into my arms. "His name is Yapper."

Keane throws his head back and laughs, throwing an amused glance at Dominic. Dominic just rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

Keane clears his throat, bringing his focus back to business. "The Command Council men are gathering for poker in an hour, and the wives were invited. You need to be there."

"No," Dominic says instantly, his tone flat and unyielding. "I’m not going."

"Dominic, it’s important," Keane pushes, dropping the playful tone. "The captains are already arriving. It’s a bad look if you skip out."

Dominic's jaw tightens as he weighs Keane's words. Finally, he lets out a harsh breath. "Give me a minute."

Keane gives a sharp nod and turns to head down the corridor.

Dominic shuts the door and turns back to face me, his dark eyes searching mine. "Will you come?"

"Yes," I nod without hesitation. If standing by his side at a poker game sends a message to his men, I'm more than ready.

He holds my gaze for a long beat before giving a single, decisive nod. "Let's go get dressed."

I quickly enter the bathroom to check my face in the mirror, dabbing on a bit of powder and reapplying a swipe of gloss. By the time I step back out into the bedroom, there’s an outfit laid out neatly across the center of the bed.

It’s a stiff, high-collared black midi dress—completely modest, suffocatingly conservative, and buttoned straight up to the throat.

Dominic stands by the wardrobe, adjusting his cufflinks, without even looking up. "I chose that for you. You’re wearing that tonight."

What the heck is he on?

A sudden, sharp heat spikes in my chest, burning through the lighthearted mood we’d shared all afternoon. In an instant, the sight of that carefully chosen dress snaps me straight back into the past.

It reminds me of my father dictating how I walked, talked, and breathed. It reminds me of Luciano keeping me covered, hidden, and controlled like a doll he owned.

Every man in my life has tried to govern how I present myself to the world—and I promised myself I would never bow down to that again.

"No," I say, my voice cold and dangerous.

Dominic pauses, his hands dropping from his wrist as his dark eyes snap to mine. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not wearing that," I say, taking a step toward the bed and throwing a disdainful gesture toward the fabric. "I don't need you playing stylist, Dominic. I am more than capable of picking out my own clothes."