Chapter 12
Brendon
When I get back to my apartment, I’ve replayed the look on Dominic’s face at least twenty times. It still won’t sit right.
He acted normal enough in my office. Or at least his version of normal. Easy smile, lazy posture, that casual way he threw praise at my feet because he knows how easily I blush.
But I’ve spent the last two weeks sitting across from him for hours at a time, learning how his expressions work in the same way I learn how judges write opinions.
I know the difference between his real grin and the one he puts on for cameras. I know the little twitch in his jaw that means he’s irritated, and the slight narrowing of his eyes that means he’s thinking about something he’s not saying.
He didn’t say one thing about Hannah. Which I had expected him to do, especially since he basically said I belonged to him.
He just walked in, watched her leave, dropped the GPA news, and walked out again. On paper, that should be a blessing. He could’ve made it hell for me, but he didn’t.
So why won’t my brain let it go?
Jericho meets me at the door, tail flicking, pupils blown big in the dim entryway. He meows once, as if telling me I’m late.
“I’m on time,” I tell him, toeing my shoes off. “You’re just dramatic.”
He circles my ankles as I walk to the kitchen, threatening to trip me, until I scoop him up under his chest. He sprawls against my arm, purring already, face pressed against my collarbone as I scratch behind his ears.
The sound should be soothing; it usually is.
Tonight, it just floats over the top of the buzzing in my chest.
I feed him, because I’m not a monster, then stand in the tiny kitchen, staring at nothing while he crunches away at his bowl. I catch sight of the leather cuff on my wrist in the microwave door, and every muscle in my body goes tight.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself. “You’re fine.”
I’m not fine, because he didn’t look happy when he walked away.
“I need to blow off some steam, anyway.”
I push off the counter and pace, hands on my hips. Rationally, his mood isn’t my problem. He’s not my friend—he’s barely my student in any normal sense of the word. He’s my walking, talking, moral disaster, and I’m supposed to be keeping him functional enough to pass his classes.
That’s the job. Whatever else he does with his time is on him. I’m not his conscience. I’m not his keeper.
I’m not responsible if he snaps.
Except, I know what he does when he snaps. I’ve seen it and smelled it. I’ve sat at his dining room table and listened to him call someone to haul a body away. I know what “blowing off steam” means for him.
The idea that I might’ve just watched him walk out of my office, ready to go find someone to put his hands on in a way they won’t survive, makes my stomach twist so hard I have to brace a hand on the back of the couch.
“This is insane,” I mutter to myself. “You’re not—this isn’t your business. He’s a grown man. He’s been doing this for years. He doesn’t need you monitoring his… murder schedule.”
Jericho hops up onto the armrest of the couch, tail flicking, yellow eyes fixed on me with that unimpressed stare that makes me feel like he’s the one paying rent.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say, pointing at him. “I know it’s messed up. I’m aware.”
He blinks slowly, stretches out, then curls himself into a neat loaf, clearly settling in to watch the rest of my internal implosion.
I walk laps around the coffee table, trying to shove the itch under my skin down and failing. It keeps coming back worse. That look on Dominic’s face, the note in his voice when he said: “I need to blow off some steam, anyway.”
I should leave it alone—I know that. I should take the win. I should grade my papers, pray about my feelings, go to bed, and show up for our session tomorrow like nothing is wrong.
What if this is how he looks when he’s ready to kill?
The thought comes uninvited. But there’s the other, worse thing that creeps in behind that.
What if he gets hurt?
It’s stupid. He’s dangerous. He’s six-foot-four and built like a weapon, and I’ve watched him snap a grown man’s neck like it was nothing.
But he’s not invincible—wrong place, wrong time cuts both ways. I keep thinking about the way he left my office, shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes distant.
I scrub both hands through my hair and groan. “This is a terrible idea,” I tell the empty room.
Jericho yawns. I grab my keys anyway.
“I’ll be back,” I tell him. “If I’m not, you’ll haunt Dominic’s cottage, okay?”
He makes a disgruntled noise and disappears under the couch.
Fair.
The drive out to the cottage is muscle memory by now. I realize halfway there how messed up that is. How easily I navigate the turns and side streets in the dark, with only the soft wash of my headlights cutting through the trees.
It barely occurs to me that I’m leaving my safe little bubble, and heading toward the place where I watched a man die on the floor and did nothing but sit at the table.
The sky is deep blue by the time I pull onto the gravel road, stars just starting to surface. The cottage sits at the end—solitary, with its porch light off. His Charger is parked where it usually is, and the Ducati is leaning next to it, helmet sitting on the seat.
Both of his vehicles are here, and it’s just after 9 p.m., but no lights are on inside. He’s home. He’s in there—either sitting in the dark or sleeping.
I pull in behind the Charger and kill the engine, the sudden quiet pressing against my ears. I sit there gripping the steering wheel, staring at the side of the house.
I didn’t think this through. I didn’t text or call to warn him. I didn’t do anything except drive out here, because it didn’t feel right sitting at home when I felt…uneasy.
“This is such a bad idea,” I mutter, but my body has already decided to get out.
Gravel crunches under my shoes as I walk up the path, the now-familiar cottage looming out of the shadows with the porch light off. Everything is too quiet here, and that doesn’t help with the tightness in my chest.
I stop at the bottom of the steps, and tell myself this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done—and I’ve done a lot of stupid things in the past two weeks alone.
I walk up the steps anyway, and stand in front of the door with my hand raised to knock, knuckles hovering an inch from the wood.
My heart’s pounding so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. I picture the door opening to an empty house, silence staring back at me. I picture it opening to Dominic, blood on his hands, smile in place.
What are you going to say if he opens it, genius? “Hi, I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to check if you killed anyone?” That’ll go well.
I’m not a superhero. I’m a TA with a cross around my neck and a cat who judges my life choices. Dominic lives in a world where problems are solved with fists and silent bodies. I live in a world where problems are solved with conversations and office hours.
I let my hand drop. This is insane. I’m insane. He has a session with me tomorrow. He’s going to be alive then—unless he runs headfirst into a bus which, frankly, I wouldn’t put past him. But still; showing up uninvited at his place at night crosses a line I don’t even know how to define.
I turn to leave, already rehearsing the lie I’ll tell myself later. I just came for a drive. I just wanted to see if he was okay. I didn’t mean to—
The door opens behind me with a sudden creak, and I turn without meaning to.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Dominic says, voice incredulous, and every muscle in my body locks.
The porch light snaps on, flooding the space with harsh yellow, and I blink against it, caught like a bug.
Dominic stands in the doorway staring at me with narrowed eyes, one hand on the frame, wearing a black T-shirt and sweatpants. His hair is pushed back off his forehead, a little messy like he’s been running his fingers through it.
He looks… wrong.
Not in the way that means he’s bloody or hurt. Physically, he looks fine, but there’s a tightness around his mouth I haven’t seen before. Irritation is there, yeah, but there’s also annoyance strung too tight.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out at first. “Hi,” I say, because my brain picks the worst possible option at all times. “I—uh—”
He steps out onto the threshold, filling the space easily, and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks puzzled in a way that seems to piss him off. The muscles in his forearms tense, veins standing out.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Brendon?” he asks again. “And don’t bullshit me. You don’t do social visits.”
The instinct to smooth things over kicks in out of habit. I open my mouth to come up with some plausible academic excuse, a lost assignment, anything that sounds more rational than the truth. The words pile up uselessly on my tongue.
“I—” I start, then stop. My cheeks burn. “I was… driving home and I… was in the area.”
His brows shoot up. “You live fifteen minutes in the other direction. Try again.”
God, he remembers that. Of course he does. I stare at him, cold air stinging my face, the weight of his attention pressing in. The cuff suddenly feels heavy on my wrist. My mouth moves before my caution can catch up.
“I was… I was just…” I start, cheeks still burning, then realize I sound like every idiot freshman caught cheating on an exam. I swallow hard, forcing the words to line up. “I was worried.”
His expression changes then, confusion slicing through the irritation. “What?”
“I was worried,” I repeat, and now that I’ve said it once, it tumbles out faster. “You left my office, and you had a weird look on your face, and then I didn’t see you anywhere, and I just… You’ve been quiet lately, and I didn’t want to just sit at home and wonder if you were going to—”
I choke myself off before I say kill someone out loud.