Chapter 27 #2
He snorts again, but when I push gently at his shoulder, he lets me ease him onto the couch.
He grunts, hissing when a likely torn muscle complains, but he doesn’t fight me.
That scares me more than anything. The Dominic I know wrestles control from every situation, even the ones where he’s bleeding; seeing him pliant and heavy in my hands makes my skin crawl.
“Hold this,” I say, shoving a throw pillow behind his back, so he doesn’t topple sideways. “And don’t fall asleep. I’ll be right back.”
“Bossy,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “I like it.”
“Shut up,” I say, already sprinting toward the bathroom.
My first-aid kit is in the cabinet under the sink; a small-town upbringing and an anxious mother trumped city complacency. I grab it, shove an armload of clean towels against my chest, fill a bowl with warm water, and stumble back into the living room.
He hasn’t moved much, his head lolling against the back of the couch, eyes now closed, breathing shallow but steady.
Blood has tracked from his temple down to his jaw, dry in places, fresh in others, and there’s a split on his lip that keeps oozing.
His hoodie sleeve is soaked through at the biceps, near where the gash on his shoulder is.
“Hey,” I say sharply, setting the bowl down. “Open your eyes.”
He does so slowly. His eyes are glossy, pupils a little blown, but they focus on my face.
“Pretty,” he says, like an idiot, and pats my cheek. “My pretty boy.”
“Don’t try to flirt your way out of medical attention,” I say. “It’s not going to work.”
“Worth a shot,” he mutters.
My hands shake as I soak a towel and start cleaning his face; the water turns pink immediately. I dab carefully around the cut at his hairline, biting back a wince every time he flinches.
“This is going to sting,” I warn him, reaching for the antiseptic wipes.
“Everything already stings,” he says. “Go for it.”
I clean the worst of it, working in small, methodical circles.
Forehead. Temple. Cheekbone. The cuts are deep enough that they probably needs stitches, but not bad enough for the ER—if he were a normal person.
Which he’s not. He hates hospitals and any institutions where anyone else has control over his body.
“Do you remember what happened?” I ask quietly as I work. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Blackouts?”
“Got hit. Hit back. Got hit again.” He shrugs his good shoulder, then winces. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, you look great,” I say, deadpan. “Cover of GQ.”
He huffs a tired laugh, and his eyes flutter heavily.
“Hey,” I snap again, lightly tapping his cheek. “Stay with me. You fall asleep and I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No hospitals,” he slurs, panic flashing under the fog. His hand clamps onto my wrist, fingers digging in tight. “Brendon, no. I’m not… don’t—”
“Okay,” I say immediately, dropping the threat. “Okay. No hospitals. But only if you cooperate. That means staying awake and letting me poke you in ways you won’t like.”
He smirks faintly. “That a promise?”
“Wrong kind of poking,” I say, heat creeping up my neck despite everything. “Pervert.”
His grip loosens, but he keeps his hand around my wrist. I don’t shake him off. I move on to his lip, cleaning it as gently as I can. He hisses, swears, and tries to jerk away, but I keep my thumb pressed under his chin.
“Hold still,” I murmur. “You’re the one who decided to headbutt concrete, or whatever you did.”
“Didn’t headbutt concrete,” he mutters. “Guy was taller than I thought. My aim was off.”
“Comforting,” I say, grabbing the suturing kit from the box.
His eyes widen slightly. “You know how to do that?”
I shrug, trying to seem more confident than I feel. “Small-town life,” I say. “When your dad insists on saving money, and glue only does so much, you learn things. I’ve stitched up my cousins. You’ll be fine.”
“That is not reassuring,” he says, but he doesn’t try to stop me when I thread the needle.
“Bite this,” I say, handing him a folded piece of cloth. “Or my hand, but that will make me slap you, so pick your poison.”
He snorts and takes the cloth, clamping it between his teeth. His eyes meet mine, darker now, a flicker of trust there that makes my chest ache.
I work as quickly and carefully as I can.
The cut at his hairline takes four stitches.
His shoulder is worse, but doesn’t look as bad as I feared once I peel the torn fabric away; eleven stitches there.
The whole time he swears, muffled around the cloth: ‘fuck’, and ‘Jesus Christ’, and a string of Russian I don’t understand but can guess at from the tone.
I clean his knuckles next, swabbing away the blood and dirt, then check for anything that looks broken.
The skin is split in several places, angry and raw, but nothing is at a weird angle.
His hands are big and warm in mine while I work, the muscles in his forearms jumping when the alcohol hits his skin.
“Who did you hit?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “Or what?”
He laughs, low and humorless. “You don’t want the answer to that, Little Sin.”
“I already know you kill people,” I say quietly. “You’re not going to shock me now.”
“You should be shocked,” he says. “You shouldn’t be sitting here stitching up a monster like me.”
“What, you want me to faint?” I ask. “Scream? Run?”
“That’d be logical.”
I wrap gauze around his hand, snug but not tight, and tape it in place. “You lost your logic privileges when you showed up bleeding on my rug, instead of going home.”
He stares at me, then his gaze drops, lashes lowering. When he speaks again, his voice is softer—the words starting to blur at the edges. Whatever adrenaline got him here is wearing off, leaving behind a mess of pain and exhaustion.
“I didn’t want to go home,” he mutters. “Wanted to come here.”
Something stupid and warm flares in my chest, and I tamp it down with practiced self-loathing. “Yeah, I got that part.”
His breathing has gone a little shallower; I shift, reaching for the hem of his hoodie. “I need to see your ribs.”
“Buy me dinner first,” he mumbles.
“I will smother you with this pillow,” I warn, but my voice comes out gentle. “Arms up.”
He winces, but complies, lifting his arms enough for me to pull the hoodie over his head.
The T-shirt underneath is damp and clinging, and there are bruises already blooming along his side—angry purples and reds that make my stomach twist. One long, ugly scrape slices along his ribs, shallow but messy.
“Jesus,” I whisper, pressing my fingers lightly around the area, feeling for anything that gives. “Does this hurt?”
“Everything hurts, Brendon,” he says. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Smartass.” I press a little more firmly in one spot, and he sucks in a quick breath. “Okay, that’s probably a bruised rib. Maybe two. Nothing I can do about those, so you’ll just have to not be an idiot and take it easy.”
“Yes, doctor,” he says faintly. “Tell me more about how I shouldn’t be an idiot.”
I clean the scrape as gently as I can, smear antibiotic ointment on it, then tape gauze over it, too. By the time I’m done, he’s lying down on the couch, sweat beading on his forehead again. His eyes are closed again, lashes dark against skin that looks too pale under the harsh light.
“Hey,” I say softly, tapping his cheek. “No sleeping yet. Head injury, remember? I need you awake a little longer.”
He makes a noncommittal noise, somewhere between a grunt and a sigh.
“Dom.” I lean in. “Stay with me.”
His eyes crack open, unfocused, but he looks at me as if he’s seeing something behind my face that I can’t.
“I didn’t want this,” he murmurs suddenly.
My heart stutters. “Want what?”
“You,” he says, and the word is raw, stripped of his usual swagger. “Didn’t want to feel this way about you. It’s fucking dangerous.”
My throat tightens. “Okay,” I say carefully. “We’re just going to unpack that later, yeah? When you’re not bleeding on my couch.”
He ignores that as his head lolls slightly to the side, gaze drifting somewhere over my shoulder like he’s watching ghosts.
“Caring about people gets them killed,” he adds, voice dropping. “Tracking mark. Weak point. She taught me that. Again and again.”
“Who?” I ask, even though I already know.
His mouth curls, half snarl, half heartbreak.
“My dear mama,” he slurs. “Fucked-up goddess of the slaughterhouse. She made me like this. Took her pretty boy and carved all the softness out until there was nothing left but… this.” His free hand flexes weakly.
“Said love is a liability. Said you don’t hold people, you hold knives. Knives don’t leave.”
I go very still.
We’ve danced around his childhood before—little pieces, tossed out in sardonic comments, glimpses of something much uglier under the tattoos and swagger. This is the closest he has ever come to saying her name and mine in the same breath.
“I didn’t want you to be leverage,” he mumbles, eyes slipping closed again. “Didn’t want her to see you. Didn’t want her to smell you on me, so I… tried to push you away. She’ll hurt you if she knows. She always hurts the soft things I reach for, and you’re so fucking soft, Brendon.”
The word should make me bristle, but it doesn’t. Not now. “You think you’re protecting me by pushing me away?”
He huffs a breath that might be a laugh. “Trying,” he says. “Failing. Look at me. Bleeding on your furniture. Came here anyway. Fuck.”
“Why, though?” I say. “Why come here after ignoring me all night?”
He cracks one eye open again, gaze heavy. “Where else would I go?” he murmurs. “Always end up at your door now. Like a stray.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “You’re a six-four serial killer and a first-round draft pick,” I say. “You’re nobody’s stray.”
“Mmm,” he hums, already drifting. “You’ll disagree in the morning. Hate this. Hate me. Hate that I let her get in my head.”
“I don’t hate you,” I say, the words rushing out before I can stop them.
He makes a soft, broken sound that might be relief or disbelief. “You should,” he whispers. “Would be safer.”
My chest feels too tight, so I keep my hands busy, fussing with the tape on his bandages because I don’t know where else to put them.
“She’s wrong, you know,” I say, before I can swallow it.
He huffs out a bitter laugh that turns into a wince, then he blinks, expression going serious and unfocused again. “I shouldn’t have you; I know that. She’d kill you just to prove a point. Does that stop me? Of course not.”
“Dom—”
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t fucking matter. You’re mine.” His hand fumbles blindly, fingers catching my wrist where the leather cuff sits, and he squeezes. “Mine, Little Sin. I don’t share. I don’t… I don’t lose people anymore. Not to her. Not to anyone. Can’t… can’t lose you. Not you. Please…”
“Hey,” I say, voice thick. “You’re not losing me, okay? I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He mumbles more, words slurring together. “Dom,” I whisper, leaning closer, free hand smoothing his hair back from his face. “You’re safe. You’re with me. I’ve got you.”
His eyes crack open one last time, glassy and unfocused, but they find my face, locking there like it’s a fixed point in a spinning room. The cocky smirk, the golden boy mask; all of it is gone. What’s left is bare, and terrifying in its honesty.
“Didn’t… want to love you,” he mumbles, the word landing between us and leaving me shaken to my core. “But I do. That’s the problem. Love gets you killed.”
My breath stutters and I swear my heart forgets how to beat.
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out. There’s a thousand things I could say—protests, reassurances that I love him too, that it’s okay, that we’ll figure it out—but his eyes have already slid shut again, lashes resting against his cheeks.
His grip on my wrist loosens as his body finally gives in.
“Dom?” I ask, panic spiking. “Hey, stay with me a little longer.”
He doesn’t answer, but his chest rises and falls—slow but steady. His head lolls slightly to the side, mouth parting on a soft exhale. He’s out-not dead, just exhausted and hurt. He crashed hard enough that even his monsters had to lie down for a minute.
My hand is still cradling his, listening to his breathing and waiting for some external authority to walk in and tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do with all of this.
No one does. It’s just me, Jericho, watching from the arm of the couch with owl-wide eyes, and the bloodied monster sleeping on my cheap cushions.
I sink to the floor beside the couch, back against it, knees pulled up, and stay there until my own body gives up on staying awake—head eventually tipping sideways to rest against the cushion near his hip, Jericho a warm line against my thigh.
The last thing I’m aware of, before sleep drags me under, is the steady rise and fall of Dominic’s chest and the faint, stubborn imprint of his muffled words in my ears.
‘Didn’t want to love you. But I do.’
Yeah. Same.