6. His Sinner
Chapter six
His Sinner
Dominic stirs, his swollen eye cracks open, his gaze unfocused for a moment before he finds me sitting on the other side of the bars, waiting. He shifts, wincing, clearly in pain, but even in this state, he manages a faint smirk.
“Morning, Little Sinner,” he rasps, his voice rough and hoarse.
“Morning,” I whisper back, forcing a small smile at the familiar nickname, though the lump in my throat makes it hard.
I can’t stop thinking about what I heard yesterday, the pieces of information they let slip while they shoved me through that nightmare of a shower. The thought of telling him feels like a weight pressing on my chest, but he deserves to know.
I take a deep breath, looking him in the eyes, even though it hurts to see him like this. “Dominic… they said someone’s coming today… For you.”
His expression shifts, a flicker of acceptance, crossing his face. He sighs, leaning back against the bars, his gaze unfocused. “Yeah. Figured it was coming.”
“You can’t go with them,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. The idea of him being taken—of losing the one person who’s kept me grounded in this nightmare—is too much. “We… we need to figure something out. There has to be a way—”
He looks back at me, his expression softening, a trace of sadness in his eyes. “Aria, I’ll be fine. You just… you stay strong, okay? Whatever happens to me, I’m getting you out of here. I promise.”
My chest tightens, and I feel the hot sting of tears building in my eyes. “But what if… what if you can’t? What if—”
He reaches a bruised hand through the bars, fingers curling around mine in a weak, but reassuring grip.
“Hey. Don’t count me out just yet. I’ve survived worse than this, and I’m not about to let some assholes in masks be the end of me. They think they can break me, but they don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
I manage a small, sad smile, clinging to his hand like it’s the only solid thing I have left. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”
“Damn right,” he says, a faint glimmer of humor in his voice.
My heart aches at his words, the quiet determination in them. “Dominic… please. Don’t give up.”
“I’m not giving up. I’m just… playing the hand I’ve got. But enough about this. Let’s talk about something else. Something that isn’t… all this.” He gestures around, grimacing as he shifts to get a little more comfortable.
I nod, grateful for the distraction, even if it’s just for a moment. “Okay… tell me something about you. Anything.”
He smirks, though it’s more like a pained grimace. “You don’t already know? I thought I was an open book.”
“Not even close,” I say, managing a small smile. “How about… your favorite color?”
He shrugs, eyes distant. “Black, probably. Makes me look like I know what I’m doing. Plus, it hides the grease stains from the garage.” He chuckles, though it’s a rough sound, filled with more pain than humor.
“What about you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’m guessing you’re a daisy-yellow type.”
I blink, surprised. “Daisies… actually, yeah. They’re my favorite flower, too.” I smile softly, letting the memory wash over me. “My mom used to plant them in the front yard every spring. Said they were strong, resilient. They could handle anything.”
“Like you,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Guess it runs in the family.”
I feel my cheeks warm, and I glance down, trying to hide the rush of emotion his words bring. “What about you?” I ask quickly, deflecting. “You got a favorite flower?”
He chuckles, his expression wry. “Do I look like a guy who goes around picking flowers?”
“Just humor me,” I say, giving him a teasing look.
He sighs, pretending to think. “Fine. Sunflowers. They’re tall, tough, and they always know where the light is.” He meets my gaze, his eyes softening. “Plus, they’re a hell of a lot prettier than I’ll ever be.”
I laugh, but the sound feels foreign in this place, but somehow right with him here. “I’ll bet you’re the first biker to ever admit to liking sunflowers.”
“Probably,” he says, flashing me a small grin. “I’ve never been one for the stereotype, though. Makes life boring.”
I nod, and the conversation shifts into an easy rhythm, like we’re just two people getting to know each other, not prisoners trapped in cells. I tell him about the things I love—the scent of lavender, old poetry, my favorite lines from a poem I memorized as a kid. I share it with him, the words tumbling out softly, hesitant, but he listens, his gaze steady on me.
“ ‘Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light,’ ” I say, quoting the line that’s always been my favorite. “ ‘I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.’ ”
He watches me, his good eye softened, and he repeats the line under his breath, like he’s committing it to memory. “That’s… beautiful,” he murmurs. “And dark. Guess I should’ve known you’d be a closet poet.”
I roll my eyes, laughing. “It’s just something that’s always stayed with me. Guess it’s fitting for… well, now.”
He gives me a look, something deep and quiet, as though he sees right through me, sees every fear I’m hiding behind these small, shared secrets. “You’re not in the dark, Aria,” he says softly. “Not as long as I’m here.”
Before I can respond, the door clangs open. My heart plummets as I see two men standing there, their neon stitch masks glowing faintly, casting eerie shadows across their faces. I know why they’re here. I feel it in my bones, a cold certainty that makes my skin crawl.
“No…” I whisper, shaking my head as they step toward Dominic’s cell.
He glances at me, a soft resignation in his eyes. “Guess this is it,” he murmurs, and offers me a faint smile, like he’s trying to reassure me, even now.
“Dominic…” My voice cracks, the panic clawing up my throat, and I reach out, my fingers gripping the bars as though I can somehow hold him back, keep him here.
He leans forward, his good hand wrapping around mine, his gaze intense, steady. “Don’t be scared. You’ve got this. Just… hang on for me, alright?”
“I’ll hold on until I break,” I choke, my vision blurring with tears. “I… Please…”
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze, a sadness flickering across his bruised face. “Don’t cry, Little Sinner, just think about those stars in the poem you love.”
Before I can say anything else, Red Mask yanks the cell door open, grabbing him roughly by the arm. Dominic barely flinches, though I see the pain flash across his face as they pull him up, shoving him toward the door.
I can feel the tears streaming down my face, my chest tightening as I watch them drag him out of the cell. “Please… please don’t go,” I sob, reaching out through the bars, desperate to hold onto him.
“I’ll come back for you,” he says, his voice steady despite everything. “Don’t break for anyone, okay?”
“No!” I sob, trying to reach out to him, but the light has left his eyes, his bruised face softened with a look that’s almost tender. Then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind them.
“Dominic!” I scream, my voice raw, echoing in the empty cell. I pound on the bars, my fists aching as I call out his name, over and over, until my voice is hoarse and my hands are numb.
But there’s only silence.
The promise he made to get me out is all I have left, and I hold onto it with everything I have, praying that somehow he’ll keep his word.
I sit there for what feels like hours, the darkness closing in, my fingers still clutching the cold bars, as though they’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.