Chapter 5
Dominic
The sound he makes slams into me harder than any hit I have ever taken on the field.
It’s not fear, exactly. There is fear in it, sure, because he’s a good boy backed against a wall with a killer’s hand around his throat. But there’s tension tangled up in that noise he makes, and it drags a shiver down my spine so fast I have to tighten my grip just to steady myself.
His body goes very, very still, and the whole world narrows to that one point of contact.
Fuck. Me.
A chill rolls through me, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I didn’t know I could still feel that. Not from this—not from something as simple as a touch.
I knew darkness was sitting under all that good boy shit, but I didn’t expect it to be this easy to find.
I’m being careful with him. I know exactly how far I can push before it becomes real danger, because I live on that edge in other ways. Right now, I want the reaction, not the damage.
I tighten my grip, and his eyes roll back enough that the whites show and his lashes flutter again. His knees buckle a little, but his hands finally lift to curl lightly around my wrist instead of pushing me away.
“Fuck,” I breathe, unable to hold it in this time. “You made a very pretty sound, Little Sin.”
His eyes flash at that, and there it is again—that stubborn little spark that hooked me yesterday.
I’ve been bored. That’s the honest fucking truth. Killing has turned into routine, and football is expected, a path laid out so clearly I could walk it blindfolded.
They are release valves, and stopped feeling electric a long time ago. I kept doing it because it’s part of me; after all, the urge doesn’t vanish just because the thrill dulls. But it all started to feel like dragging the same knife over the same scar until there’s nothing left to cut.
Then he walked in.
It isn’t rational; I’ve never cared much about rationality when it comes to the part of me that likes blood and hearing people beg.
I care about clean execution, about staying out of prison, about not having my name dragged through headlines for the wrong reasons.
But inside that framework, I take what I want. I always have.
I could corrupt him so thoroughly before I leave this place.
I picture it in flashes, as easy and vivid as game tape. His mouth saying my name the way he said it a second ago, but without the shaky protest. That pretty, righteous mouth opening for things that have nothing to do with Scripture.
I’m gone in less than a year, if everything goes to plan, but I have time between now and then to see how far I can pull this boy away from everything his father taught him to be.
To watch him break his own rules for me, over and over, until there is nothing left of that perfect image except what I leave behind.
I bring my face closer to his, close enough that his breath hits my lips when he exhales. “You know what really fucks me up about you?”
He swallows hard, eyes flicking down to my mouth and then back up.
“Nothing about me should f-fuck you up,” he says, trying for disdain, but it comes out softer than he wants when he stutters over the curse. “You think you know me after an hour we spent together, but you don’t.”
“I know enough to see that some part of you liked yesterday,” I say, and his whole body goes rigid.
“Maybe not the blood or the body. But the fact that you suddenly had a secret no one else had? The fact that you were sitting across from the monster everyone worships without having to pretend you saw a hero? You like having the truth when everyone else has the PR.”
He stares at me, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jump. “You’re just a guy who thinks he’s untouchable,” he says.
The defiance makes my mouth twitch. “I killed a man in front of you. That puts me in a different category than ‘just a guy.’”
“You decided his life meant less than your mood,” he fires back. “That’s not special, that’s pathetic.”
My fingers flex involuntarily at that, a brief squeeze against his neck that makes his breath hitch again. His eyes flutter for a second, and then he drags them back open like he refuses to give me the satisfaction of watching him let go.
That effort, that stubborn refusal, is a better hit than any desperate begging could ever be.
“You keep talking to me like that and I’m going to think you like it when I’m close,” I say, my tone dry.
He lets out a harsh little laugh. “You’re not that irresistible.”
“You’re the one whining under my hand, Little Sin.” I tilt my head, studying him. “You sure you’re scared of me, or are you scared of yourself?”
Color floods his cheeks. “Stop calling me that,” he says again, but he doesn’t move his hands off my wrist. He’s not trying to pry me away; he’s holding me there. That’s the part that really fucks me up. “You’re a killer with your hand on my neck. I feel like the fear’s pretty justified.”
I loosen my grip deliberately, leaving the weight of my hand as a reminder instead of a threat. “You know why it bothers you so much?”
“Because it’s disgusting,” he mutters.
“Because it’s true,” I correct. “You are a little sin. Neat shirt, pressed pants, a cross around your neck, parents who probably talk about you in glowing terms to their Bible study friends. And underneath all that, there’s a part of you that likes this way more than you’re ready to admit.”
“I don’t,” he snaps.
“If you hated it, you’d have clawed my eyes out by now,” I say. “You’d have screamed, or cried, or begged me to stop. Instead, you’re standing here letting me handle your throat and arguing about semantics.”
He bristles. “I’m not letting you do anything. You barged in here, and you’re playing your stupid mind games because no one’s told you no before.”
“That’s the thing,” I say thoughtfully. “People have told me no. They just weren’t prepared for what comes after. You? You keep skirting around it. You tell me I’m disgusting and pathetic, you tell me to stop calling you names, but you still haven’t told me to get off you.”
His mouth opens, then snaps shut. The realization hits him right in the middle of his pretty face.
“Say it,” I murmur. “Tell me to get off you. Tell me to leave. If you mean it, I will.”
His eyes search mine, looking for the lie, and I give him none. I can feel the line here as clearly as I feel the line when I’m holding someone’s life in my hands.
I push, yeah, but I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m not interested in dead meat. I’m interested in what people do when you put them against an edge and give them a choice.
His fingers flex on my wrist, but he still doesn’t push me away.
“Thought so,” I say, finally letting the smugness creep back into my voice, because he needs the friction as much as he needs the choice.
“You’re twisting everything,” he says, but it comes out thin, without the conviction from earlier. “You’re good at that.”
“Of course I am. Twisting is fun. It’s even more fun when the thing I’m twisting was never straight to begin with. You keep pretending you don’t want to know what it feels like to stop saying yes to other people.”
His brows pull together, eyes narrowing. “What?”
“You’ve been saying yes your whole life: yes to your parents, yes to church, yes to professors, yes to Keller when he dumps me in your lap.
Smile when you don’t want to, nod when you want to scream.
You’re so fucking used to saying yes for other people that you’ve never noticed how much you want to say it for yourself. ”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” he protests, voice thin.
“It makes perfect sense,” I say. “Tell me, why aren’t you clawing at me? Why aren’t you yelling for help? Why aren’t you reaching for your phone, the intercom, anything?”
I lean in before he can answer, bringing my mouth close to his ear. I can feel the heat of him through his shirt, his chest pressed to mine, his heart slamming between us like it wants out.
“You know why. Because right now, you don’t have to decide.
You don’t have to weigh whether this is right or wrong, what your parents would say, or what God would do.
You can just react and let your body do the talking for you.
And your body?” I give his throat the slightest squeeze, and another soft sound escapes him without permission.
“Baby, your body’s not arguing with me.”
He sucks in a stuttered breath. “It doesn’t mean I like you touching me,” he says, but it comes out shaky, too close to a plea to land as defiance. “You’re a violent psychopath who doesn’t understand boundaries.”
“I understand boundaries fine. Right now, I’m pressing on all of yours on purpose to see which ones hold and which ones were just painted on by someone else. You know what I’m seeing? A lot of chipped paint.”
His lips press together in a thin, stubborn line, but his eyes give him away. I ease my hand away from his throat, dragging my fingers slowly down the column of it and over the quick beat of his pulse, letting them settle on his collarbone.
He gasps at the loss and, at the same time, slumps a fraction against the wall.
“You want control?” I ask quietly. “You can have it. You want me to stop, say it. You want me to go back to pretending I’m just your dumb jock student, say it. You want me never to touch you again, say it. I’ll walk out that door.”
He stares at me, expression caught somewhere between suspicion and hope. “You’d just… stop?”
“If you really wanted me to,” I say, and I mean it.
It wouldn’t be fun, because playing with a broken toy is boring.
“But that’s not what you want, and we both fucking know it.
You can either cling to whatever’s left of that good boy image and keep lying to yourself about what you want, or you can be honest, just once, and see what happens. ”
Suspicion flares again. “You’re going to make me do something messed up.”
“I’m going to offer you something messed up,” I correct. “You’re the one who will decide to do it.”