Page 87 of Bound in Ruin

There’s no note. No plea for a conversation. No attempts to corner, gaslight or control me.

He is simply giving me small, useful, deeply personal things that prove he’s been listening to me all along. He’s taking care of me without trapping me, offering me the freedom to choose whatever I want.

I pick up the tray and set it on the nightstand, my fingers lingering over the cold metal of the car keys.

The gesture goes deeper than any grand speech ever could, forcing me to completely rethink my next move. But as much as my heart softens toward him, a dark, familiar fear creeps back in.

I’m terrified. Terrified of dropping my guard, of letting myself believe in him completely, only to be broken and let down all over again.

After eating the dessert, I head downstairs with Yapper. I drop him off with Helena in the foyer, giving her a quiet smile as she takes him into her arms, before heading straight toward the private garage.

I hold the silver key ring tightly in my palm, the metal cold against my skin.

Standing in front of the sleek vintage Stingray, a small rush of nervous adrenaline hits my chest. I’ve never driven this car alone before—Dominic was always right there beside me, guiding my hands on the wheel, his dark eyes watching me with that quiet, intense focus.

But tonight, the car is mine. The choice is mine.

I pop open the heavy door, slide into the butter-soft leather interior, and slip the key into the ignition.

With a single turn, the engine roars to life, a deep, powerful purr echoing off the concrete walls of the garage.

I pull out of the driveway, hitting the gas as the massive iron gates slide open. The car shoots forward into the crisp evening air, the wind instantly whipping through my hair.

As the estate fades into the rearview mirror and the open road stretches out ahead of me, the suffocating fear in my chest finally snaps, replaced by a sudden, breathtaking rush.

For the first time in my life, I am completely in control. And I am finally, truly free.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

DOMINIC

I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking giving her those keys.

Okay, fine. I know exactly what I was thinking.

I know how much she loves driving that car. I know the way her face lights up when the engine turns over, how completely free she feels whenever she’s behind the wheel. I just wanted to make her happy. I wanted to give her something real, something that proved I wasn't holding her hostage.

But I wasn't thinking clearly.

Now it’s pitch-black outside, and she’s been gone for over an hour.

That Stingray is a monster to handle, the clutch is unforgiving, and—sorry, Rosalia—she’s not winning any best driver contests anytime soon.

I saw her when she was getting ready to leave, even though she didn't see me watching from the shadow of the upper balcony. I watched her speed out into the night.

Now here I am, pacing the cold concrete of the garage like a complete fool, praying to gods I don’t even believe in just to hear that engine rumbling back down the driveway.

For fuck's sake, she was literally attacked just days ago. Dante's men are still out there, desperate and cornered. I should have insisted she take a team of bodyguards with her. But I knew the second I brought up security, she’d throw a tantrum, thinking I was trying to leash her all over again.

Fuck. I’m going insane.

I drag a hand down my face, my boots echoing sharply against the empty parking bays. Every minute that ticks by feels like a razor blade scraping against my nerves. If anything happens to her out there—if Dante touches a single hair on her head because I tried to be a thoughtful fucking husband—I will burn this entire city to the ground, starting with myself.

Just then, the deep, thunderous roar of the Stingray's engine echoes through the iron gates, cutting through the silence of the night.

Relief hits me so hard my knees almost give out, but the instant the headlights flash into the garage, I force my posture straight. I quickly grab a rag off the workbench and pretend to be meticulously wiping down the hood of one of the other cars, acting like I haven't been pacing these floors like a manic lunatic for the last ninety minutes.

She pulls into her spot, the engine cutting out with a soft sputter.