Until You Break (The Devout and the Damned #1)

18. His Sinner

Chapter eighteen

His Sinner

I’m stirring the pasta sauce, one hand on the wooden spoon, the other resting on the counter as my phone sits on speaker nearby. Mason’s voice fills the kitchen, warm and familiar, blending with the soft hiss of the stovetop.

“So, what do you think?” he’s asking, that hopeful tone in his voice. “A whole week on the coast. Just you, me, and a beach we don’t have to share with anyone else.”

I laugh, the sound coming easier than I expect. “That sounds incredible, Mason. Just sun, quiet, and no work. You sure you’ll be able to handle it?”

He chuckles. “I’m willing to make the sacrifice if it means I get you to myself for a week. You have no idea how much I need this.”

“I think I have some idea,” I say, smiling, stirring the sauce as I feel a small flicker of excitement.

A vacation—one where I could leave all the stress and complications behind for a while. Just us, somewhere far from everything. No alarms, no locks to triple-check, no shadows lingering in the back of my mind.

“Good,” he says, the warmth in his voice making me feel a little lighter. “So we’ll book it as soon as I get back?”

“It’s a plan,” I say, taking a small taste of the sauce and nodding to myself. It’s perfect, just the way I like it. “Guess I better start packing my bags.”

“Don’t pack too much,” he teases. “I plan on keeping you busy.”

I laugh again, rolling my eyes even though he can’t see it. “Alright, Mr. Smooth Talker. Now go get some rest. You’ve got seminars tomorrow.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

“Yep. Night, Mason.”

“Night, babe. Love you.”

“Love you too,” I say, though the words feel strangely empty as I end the call, setting my phone down.

I turn back to the stove, reaching for the spoon to stir the sauce one last time, but the faint prickle on the back of my neck makes me stop, my fingers freezing over the counter. It’s a feeling I know all too well—like I’m being watched, like there’s someone standing too close, breathing down my neck.

I turn slowly, every muscle going rigid as my gaze lands on the figure standing just feet away, watching me in silence.

Blue LED stitch mask on his face twisted into that eerie grin. Black jeans, a fitted black shirt stretched across his chest, tattoos running down his exposed arms, all sharp lines and dark ink.

He’s so close I can see the slight shift of his shoulders as he breathes, his heavy boots planted on my kitchen floor as if he belongs here.

My throat goes dry, and I take a shaky step back, my eyes darting around the kitchen. There’s no weapon within reach. The knives are on the far counter, and my hands are empty. I’m in nothing but an oversized t-shirt, bare legs and bare feet, vulnerable in a way that sends a prickling chill up my spine.

He doesn’t move. Just watches me, head tilted slightly to the side, that mask hiding his expression but amplifying the intensity of his presence. I can’t tear my gaze away, my heart racing so loud I can hear it echoing in my ears.

Then he takes a step forward, and my breath catches, instinct screaming at me to move, but I can’t. I’m frozen, his presence too heavy, too consuming.

Another step, and he’s so close I can see the faint glint of his eyes behind the mask, shadowed, hidden, but unmistakable.

I feel my throat tighten, my voice barely more than a whisper as I force myself to speak when he comes to a stop right in front of me.

“Dominic… is it… is it really you?”

He stays silent, unmoving, his head tilted as he studies me. The mask’s neon smile is mocking, hiding everything that could tell me what he’s thinking or what he wants.

I reach up, my hands shaking as I close the distance between us, fingers fumbling against the cool, slick surface of the mask. He doesn’t stop me, just stands there, his chest rising and falling steadily, letting me pull the mask away.

When it comes off, my heart stumbles.

I’m staring into eyes that haven’t changed, deep green and intense, pulling me in. But his face—it’s harder now, more rugged, a scar cutting through the corner of his upper lip, adding a sharpness to his features that wasn’t there before.

His smirk tugs at one side of his mouth, those familiar dimples framing his smile, and my stomach flips, a shiver running down my spine.

“Hello, Little Sinner,” he says, his voice low, his words sliding through the air like a current, washing over me. “Miss me?”

A strangled sob escapes my throat, the tears slipping down before I can stop them, and I don’t think—I drop the mask and throw my arms around him, clutching him like he might disappear if I let go.

“Where have you been?” I sob, my face buried in his chest, the smell of him hitting me like a wave—a scent that pulls me back to the nights we spent together in that cell. “I looked for you everywhere. I came back, I tried… but you weren’t there.”

He stands still, letting me hold onto him, his arms moving slowly around me, solid and warm, the faint scent of pine and oil settling over me, just like it used to. For a moment, I can almost believe that we’re back there, that nothing’s changed, that the last five years haven’t ripped us apart.

But I feel the difference in him, in the way he holds me, like he’s letting me in but only just. His hand trails up my back, his fingers brushing the base of my neck, and I can feel his heartbeat, steady and calm, as if nothing in this world could ever shake him.

I pull back just enough to look at him, to search his face for answers, for something that can explain why he disappeared, why he left me with nothing but memories and a hollow ache that’s never gone away.

“Why didn’t you come to me?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, my hands clutching his shirt, afraid he’ll vanish if I let go. “Why didn’t you find me?”

He watches me, his gaze unflinching, like he’s waiting, weighing each of my words. That smirk lingers, though it’s softened now.

“Aria…” he says softly, almost like he’s tasting the sound of my name, like he’s savoring it.

He doesn’t answer my question, doesn’t offer any explanation. Instead, he just looks at me, and I can feel the weight of his silence, the pull of his presence, filling every corner of the room.

“Please, Dominic. I… I thought you were gone. I thought you didn’t want me.”

For a long, agonizing moment, he just stands there, letting my words hang in the air, his eyes locked on mine. Then he lifts a hand, his fingers brushing my cheek, rough and familiar, grounding me in a way that nothing else ever has.

“Who said I didn’t want you?” he murmurs, his voice soft and the hint of a challenge threading through his tone.

For a moment, I see a flicker of the Dominic I knew. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by the look of a man who’s come back with secrets he has no intention of sharing.

“Then why…?” I choke out, the question trailing off, too many emotions tangling together, making it impossible to finish.

“Because, Little Sinner, you weren’t ready for me.”

The words send a shiver down my spine, and I feel my pulse race, my hands tightening on his shirt. There’s something in his gaze, something dark and possessive that sends a shiver through me.

“But now?” I manage, my voice barely steady. “Now you think I am?”

His smirk deepens, his hand still resting against my cheek, his touch both a comfort and a reminder of every scar, every memory we share. The hand resting on my cheek slips down to my throat and my pulse kicks up.

“Maybe,” he says, his tone teasing as his thumb runs over my pulse— a gesture that leaves me breathless. “Guess we’ll find out.”

I want to ask more, to demand answers, to make him explain everything he’s kept hidden, but his gaze holds me captive, the words slipping away as I look into those eyes that I know so well, yet feel like I’m seeing for the first time.

Finally, he steps back, his gaze lingering on me, his smirk softening into something almost tender, though I know better than to think he’ll let it show for long. Dominic’s never been one to let his guard down, not fully. I know that whatever brought him back, whatever kept him away, he’s not ready to share it. Not yet.

He tilts his head, that dark amusement glinting in his eyes. “You’ve changed, Aria,” he murmurs, a hint of admiration in his voice. “But you’re still the same Little Sinner I remember. Still believing in lost causes.”

“Some things never change,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper, the words thick with everything I can’t say.

He smiles, a real, genuine smile, dimples deepening as he takes one last look at me, then turns, disappearing into the shadows of my kitchen without another word.

I stand there, frozen, my breath caught in my throat as I watch him disappear. The silence that follows feels heavy, as though the walls themselves are holding their breath, waiting for me to make sense of what just happened.

But all I can do is stand there, caught between the relief of having him back, of knowing he’s alive, and the aching uncertainty of whatever this is. He’s close, but still just out of reach, a shadow on the edges of my life.

And I know, with bone-deep certainty, that he’s here for a reason. That smile, that touch—there’s a plan behind it, something he hasn’t let me see yet.

He’s different—older, harder, carrying something behind those eyes that makes my chest tighten. But he’s still Dominic, still the man who once protected me, who saved me when I thought no one could.

I look at the discarded mask and the ache in my chest sharpens, a hollow space he’s carved out over years. Whatever he has planned, he’s already woven me into it.