Chapter 24 #3
The jealousy fizzles out so fast it leaves me dizzy, replaced by awe and a kind of aching gratitude I have, no idea where to put.
I stare at him, at this six-four Russian nightmare who murders people and then goes home and listens to BDSM aftercare podcasts so he doesn’t mess me up more than necessary.
“That’s the most fucked up romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me,” I say, voice thin.
His grin turns slow and pleased. “Good. Now, when the tub’s ready, I’ll come back and we’ll get you to the bathroom. You lean on me, you don’t rush, and you let me do most of the work. Once you’re soaking, we can talk about the ointment situation without you wanting to die as much.”
“You’re very bossy for someone who did this to me,” I say, but my voice is softer now, the brat in me mostly pouting instead of genuinely fighting.
He smirks. “You love when I’m bossy,” he says. “And yeah, I did this to you, but I’m also the one making sure you don’t fall on your ass on the way to the toilet, so count your blessings.” He drops a quick kiss on my mouth, careful and brief, and then slides off the bed again. “Stay.”
“I’m not a dog,” I call after him, but my hands are already curling into the blanket to keep myself where he put me.
He laughs from the bathroom doorway. “You’re worse,” he says. “Dogs listen the first time.”
I hear the water turn on, the pipes in the old cottage groaning a little in protest. There’s the soft clink of bottles and the rustle of a clean towel being pulled off the shelf.
He sings under his breath in Russian, some tuneless thing that makes the whole place feel smaller and safer.
I finish the water, set the empty glass down, and lean my head back against the headboard.
Yeah, I’m sore. Yeah, it hurts. Yeah, my brain’s going to have a field day if I let it.
But I’m here; I’m in his bed, my body a map of what we did, my heart still beating under a hand that’s proven over and over it knows exactly how to hold it without crushing.
I’m not alone in this, not left to patch myself up in the dark and pretend nothing happened.
The water shuts off, and a minute later, he’s back in the doorway, one hand braced above his head on the frame, the other holding the door open.
“Bath’s ready,” he says. “Can you stand if I help you, or do you want the full dramatic carry?”
“The full dramatic carry is going to make me die of embarrassment,” I say. “So obviously that’s what you’re going to pick.”
He grins, wicked and fond. “Obviously. Come on, Little Sin. Let Daddy get you cleaned up.”
He slips his arm around my waist and helps me swing my legs over the side of the bed. The first attempt to stand makes my body light up with protest, but his hand is firm and steady, taking most of my weight. I cling to his shoulders, hiding my face against his chest as I breathe through it.
“Fuck,” I hiss. “You broke me.”
“You begged me to,” he reminds me in a low voice that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.
My face burns so hot I’m amazed the cottage doesn’t catch fire. “Shut up,” I groan, burying my face in his neck.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating against my cheek. He sets me down carefully on my feet first so I can get my balance, then immediately braces an arm around my waist when my knees wobble.
“You good to stand if I let go?” he asks, watching my face.
I take a cautious breath, testing all the muscles that feel personally attacked. “Define good,” I mutter. “But yeah. Probably. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“That was a lot of answers for one question,” he says.
I roll my eyes, even though it makes me dizzy. “Yes, Daddy,” I say through gritted teeth.
“There’s my brat,” he says. “Okay, I’m going to step out and give you some privacy, but I’m right here if you need me. If you feel dizzy or anything, call me. Do not lock the door.”
“I don’t even do that in my own apartment,” I say, which is true. The first time he came over and saw the bathroom door latch, he made a face and said, “This stays open when I’m here,” in a tone that brooked no argument. “You’ve ruined my sense of privacy forever.”
“You’re welcome,” he says, then bends to kiss my forehead before walking out.
Peeing hurts, but not in a way that feels… wrong. Just in a way that reminds me exactly how thoroughly I got rearranged last night. I keep my eyes on the tile, breathing through it, cheeks burning with a mixture of humiliation and the leftover echo of his hands all over me.
There’s a weird overlay of sensations—my parents’ voices in my head, talking about sin and purity, my own voice, embarrassingly breathy, whispering “please, Daddy” into Dominic’s ear, his growl when he finally pushed in, and I let go of everything I’d been holding.
A second later, he’s back in the doorway, leaning against it, watching me with that soft, crooked half-smile that still short-circuits my brain.
“Alright,” he says. “I’ll help you in, you soak, and if you’re good, I’ll even make you coffee after.”
“You’re bribing me with caffeine,” I say. “This relationship is built on lies.”
“It’s built on mutual need and shared dysfunction,” he says. “Now get your cute, sore ass over here so I can put you in hot water. Let your smug Russian truck try to fix what he broke.”
“You broke it, you fix it,” I mutter, pushing myself up on my elbows as he slides an arm around my waist again. “That’s basic customer service.”
He laughs, the sound wrapping around me almost as warm as the steam rolling out of the tub. “Good thing you come with a lifetime warranty,” he says. “Come on, Little Sin. I’ve got you.”
Walking hurts less than before, but every step is still a reminder of just how thoroughly he wrecked me.
“Clothes off,” he says gently. “Slowly. I’ll help.”
I scowl, but I let him strip me out of the oversized T-shirt I’d dragged on sometime after we collapsed.
His fingers are careful, almost reverent, skimming over tender spots without pressing.
He gets me naked without making it feel clinical or overly erotic, which is a balancing act I didn’t know he had in him.
He climbs in first, sitting down in the tub so the water comes up over his thighs, then holds his hands out to me. “C’mon,” he says. “On my lap.”
“You want to add drowning to the charges?” I ask, but my voice is soft around the sarcasm. I let him lift me, lowering me slowly into the water. The heat hits, and I hiss, muscles tensing instinctively before everything starts to loosen.
He settles me so my back’s against his chest, his arms around me, one hand splayed over my stomach, the other resting on my thigh under the water. It feels intimate in a different way than last night did—less frantic, more… I don’t even have the vocabulary for it. Which is annoying as hell.
“There,” he murmurs near my ear. “Better?”
“Yeah,” I admit, closing my eyes for a moment. “It helps.”
“Good.” His fingers drum lightly against my stomach. “You did really well last night.”
I scoff, because my brain doesn’t know what to do with praise when I’m naked and sore and half floating. “I got wrecked and cried into your shoulder. Medal-worthy performance.”
“I’m dead serious,” he says quietly. “First time isn’t just about the physical shit. You trusted me with a lot. You let me push you. You checked in with me. That’s… not nothing, Brendon.”
I shift a little, wincing, and then lean my head back against his shoulder so I can see his face. He looks tired and content and weirdly young, like this is the version of him that existed before the monsters dug in.
The silence is comfortable despite the fact that my insides feel like they’ve been reorganized by a sledgehammer.
The water laps softly against my skin every time I shift.
He reaches over at one point and pours a little over my shoulders, letting it run down my chest and back, his fingers following in a slow, grounding stroke.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he says eventually.
“I always do,” I say. “Welcome to the curse of being inside my skull.”
He smiles a little. “Give me one thought,” he says. “Just one. Doesn’t have to be the deepest one. First thing on top.”
I sigh, wondering how honest I want to be; then figure we’ve already crossed every other line, so I may as well keep going.
“I was scared I’d wake up, and you’d be… different,” I say. “Not in a bad way. Just… distant. Like you’d got what you wanted and now you were over it. I know that’s not logical, you’ve never made me feel like that, but my brain is an asshole.”
“Yeah?” he says, and I watch his jaw tighten. “Look around, Brendon. Do I look over it?”
I do. I look at him—at the way he’s literally sitting in a cramped bathtub, just to be with me while my body figures itself out, at the way he’s been touching me like I’m important, at the way he keeps calling me his, like that’s just a given now.
“No,” I say quietly. “You don’t.”
He reaches out and taps my wrist where the leather cuff sits, damp but present. “I don’t throw my toys away, Little Sin. Especially not the ones who climb into my bed and pinky promise themselves to me.”
“That sounds dangerously close to cute,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “You know you’re supposed to be terrifying, right?”
He smiles fondly. “You’re the only one who gets both. Everyone else just gets the monster. You get this too, so get used to it.”
My chest loosens a little more, and I sink deeper into the water, letting the heat and his voice wrap around me at the same time. I still hurt. I’m still embarrassed. My brain is still trying to file last night under “irreversible sin” and “best decision of my life” at the same time.
“Okay,” I say, closing my eyes. “You promise you’ve got me?”
His eyes search mine, and for once there’s no teasing in them. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve got you.”
“Promise?” I push, because last night he said it, and part of me needs to hear it again in the daylight, when the heat of the moment is gone.
A slow smile curves his mouth. He shifts one arm, lifts his hand out of the water, and hooks his pinky in front of my face, droplets clinging to his skin.
“Pinky promise,” he says.
My stupid heart stutters at our silly gesture. I curl my smaller finger around his, water dripping from both our hands, and squeeze. “Okay,” I whisper. “Then I’m yours.”
“You’ve been mine,” he says, leaning in to bump his nose against my cheek. “But it’s cute that you need the paperwork.”
I huff a wet laugh, sniffing once. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re loud when you’re getting fucked,” he says mildly.
“Dominic.” My face flames. “Shut up. I swear to God.”
He laughs, low and warm against my ear. “There’s my brat again,” he murmurs. “You’re feeling better if you can threaten me.”
“I’m threatening your dick, specifically,” I say. “If I ever see those fucking bars again, I’m calling OSHA.”
He throws his head back and laughs for real, the sound reverberating through his chest into my back.
I’m sore, I’m a mess, I’m probably going to walk funny for two days—and somehow, under all that, I’m stupidly, recklessly happy.
My Devil runs my bath and holds my pinky and calls me his, and I grip the edge of the porcelain and let myself want that for a little while without apologising for it.