Chapter 31 #2
His eyes widen briefly, then flare in a way that sends a rush of heat through me too.
His hands come up automatically, one settling at my waist, the other splaying across the small of my back, steadying me as I straddle him.
My knees bracket his hips, my chest close to his, the cuff pressing warm against my wrist where it rests on his shoulder.
“Hey,” he says softly, almost startled. “Look at you, taking initiative.”
“Don’t,” I say, but there’s no real bite in it.
His breath ghosts over my lips. “What?” he murmurs. “You don’t want me to notice how much you missed me?”
“I’m allowed to miss my… student,” I say, weaker than I want.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I’m not your student,” he says. “I’m your very bad life choice.”
“I think you can be both,” I say, and before he can come up with some filthy reply, I lean in and kiss him.
It’s not usually like this; usually, he’s the one who takes, who decides when we start and when we stop, who catches my mouth mid-sentence and derails my life with one filthy, devastating kiss.
This time it’s me.
I can tell he’s surprised. Then he makes a low sound, somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and kisses me back.
The taste of him hits me, familiar and grounding: mint and lingering spices from the stir-fry.
I slide one hand up to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of his stubble, and he makes a sound in his chest I feel more than hear.
His free hand finds the back of my neck, fingers curling there, and I melt into it like the weak thing I am for him.
The world shrinks down to the wet slide of tongues, the scrape of teeth, and the way his breath stutters when I make a soft noise into his mouth.
I carefully brush my thumb along the line of stitches at his hairline, and he tilts his head into the touch like a cat—like he wants more contact, not less. My heart cracks a little at that.
I don’t want to be away from him; not after this week. Not after seeing him with someone else. Not after thinking I’d lost him for good. Every part of me that spent years being told to hold back is screaming at me to cling. So I do, and he lets me.
When we finally break for air, we’re both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, black ringed in blue.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “You trying to kill me, Little Sin?”
His eyes roam my face when I don’t offer a retort, lingering over the redness in my eyes, the dried tear tracks on my cheeks. Guilt flickers across his features again. “What can I do to make it better—to make the pain go away? Tell me, and if it’s in my power, I’ll fucking do it.”
The question hits me deep.
He’s asked before, in smaller ways. ‘What do you need?’ ‘Tell me your color.’ ‘Use your words.’ This feels bigger, though. He’s not asking how to get me off, or how to push me to that edge he loves. He’s me asking how to fix the damage he caused.
I look down, watching my fingers twist in the fabric of his hoodie. Part of me wants to say something stupid—hurt me more, fuck me until I forget, let’s pretend none of this matters if we just keep touching. That’s the easy route; the one we’ve taken before.
I told myself that when I came tonight, I needed answers, not just a distraction. That I needed something he couldn’t give me with his hands.
“I want you to apologize for hurting me.”
His shoulders tense under my hands and his eyes flick up to mine, widening a fraction, like he wasn’t expecting that. Like he thought I’d ask for a promise he can’t keep, or a confession he’s not ready to make.
“I already said I’m sorry—”
“I know,” I cut in. “You said it, and you meant it, but I… I need it to be more than words thrown over a body count. I need you to actually… feel it. To own it. Not just the intention behind it: the impact.”
He stares at me—gaze hard and scared and stubborn. Apologies aren’t a currency he grew up with, I know that. His world uses guilt, violence, and obligation as language, not regret.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, jaw working.
“Okay,” he finally says, slowly. “Okay. You want me to apologize. I’ll apologize.”
“I don’t mean grovel,” I say quickly, even though there’s a mean little part of me that would like to see him on his knees for once. “I just… I need to know you get what you did.”
His mouth twists. “You need to know that I know I broke you,” he says quietly.
“Yes,” I say. “And that you’re not going to just… do it again, and expect me to bounce.”
He nods once, like a sentence has been passed. Then, without breaking eye contact, he moves under me.
I expect him to straighten up; to sit taller. To take a breath and launch into some Dom-brand speech laced with profanity and sincerity. Instead, he slides his hands down to my thighs, squeezes once, then gently moves me back enough that he can stand.
“Wait,” I say, confused, as he eases me off his lap and onto the couch beside him. “Dom, what are you…”
“Stay,” he says softly, the same word he used in the kitchen—but this time it lands differently. He steps back just out of reach, and for a few seconds, I panic that he’s going to walk away.
He doesn’t.
“Dom?” I ask, suddenly uneasy.
He doesn’t answer, but then he does something I genuinely never thought I’d see outside of a sexual setting.
He sinks down to his knees on the rug.
Dominic Volkov does not kneel—I do. That’s been the pattern: me on the floor and him above, his hand in my hair, his foot between my thighs. The whole stupid dynamic we’ve both tangled ourselves in. Seeing him lower himself in front of me short-circuits me on a cellular level.
He doesn’t just kneel, he goes further. He spreads his knees for balance, rests his hands on his thighs, then tips forward until his forehead touches the rug at my feet.
My heart slams against my ribs hard enough that I need to press a hand to my chest. “Dominic,” I breathe.
“Don’t say anything yet,” he mutters, voice muffled by the carpet. “I’m working up to it.”
I let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh that sounds borderline hysterical, even to me. “You’re… you’re on the floor.”
“No shit,” he says. “I figured if you were going to make me eat humble pie, I may as well do it properly.”
Despite the sarcasm, his shoulders are tense; there’s a tremor in his forearms where his hands have curled into fists on the rug. This costs him. A lot. That realization makes my throat burn, even as some wounded, vindicated part of me sits up a little straighter.
“I’m sorry for being a fucking coward,” he starts, voice still slightly muffled.
“I’m sorry for deciding what you could handle.
For cutting you out, instead of talking to you.
For sitting there on that quad and letting you see me with someone I didn’t give a single fuck about, while you walked away with that look on your face.
” His fingers flex against the rug again.
“I’m sorry I hurt you on purpose. That’s the part that keeps replaying—I knew what I was doing, and I did it anyway. ”
My eyes burn, and I blink fast. “Dom…”
He lifts his head a little, just enough that I can see the side of his face, his cheek pressed to the rug, his eyes on my feet.
“I’m sorry I made you feel disposable,” he says quietly.
“You never were. You’re the one thing that’s not.
I told myself I was protecting you, and maybe some fucked up part of that’s true, but there was selfishness in it, too.
It was easier to shove you away than admit I care so much it makes me stupid. ”
Dominic sits back on his heels so he can look up at me properly. He’s still below me, still on his knees, but now I can see his face. There’s no shield. No golden boy charm. No monster mask. Just Dominic—raw and wrecked and trying.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, slower, like he wants to etch each word into the air between us.
“For every text I didn’t answer. For every time I made you question if you imagined what we had.
For making you feel like you were the only one who got attached, when I was the one lying in your apartment bleeding, instead of dragging myself to a hospital or a motel.
For making you doubt your own worth because I decided to act like an empty-headed jock with a girl on his lap. ”
A ragged breath punches out of me; I didn’t realize how badly I needed to hear him spell it out. My chest unclenches, like a fist finally loosening its grip after weeks of hanging on for dear life.
He bows his head once more, not all the way down this time, just enough to punctuate. “I’m sorry I broke my promise,” he says softly. “I told you I had you, and then I fucking dropped you. That’s on me; no excuses. No ‘but my mom’ or ‘but my past.’ I chose it. And I regret it.”
I sit there staring at him, throat tight, fingers curled into the couch cushion. The sight of him on his knees like this messes with my head in ways I’m not ready to unpack. It feels wrong and right at the same time.
Wrong—because he’s Dominic Volkov, and seeing someone so big brought low makes my stomach twist. Right—because the part of me that’s been bleeding quietly in the dark wanted this acknowledgment more than I wanted another kiss, or another scene.
“I’m sorry I let you kneel on my floor, wondering if you mattered,” he says. “You didn’t deserve that. You deserve better than a guy who only knows how to fix things with his cock and his fists. You deserve someone who can just fucking say he’s wrong, without making a performance out of it.”
“This is a performance,” I manage, voice breaking, even as my chest aches.
He huffs a broken laugh that sounds a lot like a sob. “Yeah,” he admits. “But it’s the only language I know: violence and kneeling. You pick which side you want. I’m better at this one than at using my words.”
He shifts, and I feel his lips lightly brush against the denim over my knee. It’s not sexual; not really. It feels more like some twisted knight’s oath, from a childhood where fairy tales were replaced with crime reports.
“I am so fucking sorry, Brendon,” he says again, and the fact that he’s saying my name hits harder than his pet names ever could.
“I will still make mistakes. I will still fuck things up, because my first instinct when I’m scared is to destroy whatever’s in front of me.
But I swear to you, I will not pull that same shit again.
If I need you to be away from me because of her, I will tell you.
I will not blindside you like that again. You have my word.”
My throat is so tight it hurts to swallow. My hand comes up of its own accord, fingers trembling, and I cup his cheek. Stubble scratches my palm and he leans into my touch once more.
“Dom,” I whisper. “Dominic, get up.”
He shakes his head slightly. “Not until you say you heard me,” he says. “Not until you know I’m not fucking around. Not until you believe that hurting you is the last thing I ever wanted to do, even when my actions screamed the opposite.”
“I heard you,” I say quickly, heart pounding. “I heard you. I believe you. I’m still… hurt, and pissed, and scared—but I believe you.”
He holds my gaze, searching for any lie. Whatever he sees makes his shoulders loosen a fraction. He nods once, then slowly straightens, staying on his knees but lifting his torso, so he’s closer to my eye level again.
“This,” he says quietly, gesturing vaguely to his posture. “This is not where I want you. I want you below me when you choose to be, not because I shoved you there. You asked for an apology, and this is the only way I know to show you I understand what I did.”
I shake my head. “You didn’t have to—”
“Yes,” he cuts in gently. “I did. For me, as much as for you. I need to know there’s at least one person in my life I can bow to without it being used against me.”
That knocks the air out of me.
A wet, helpless laugh breaks out of me, and with it, the pressure behind my eyes finally gives. I swipe at my face with the heel of my hand, annoyed and relieved all at once.
“I hate you,” I say, and we both know there’s no real heat in it. “I really fucking hate you.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “I earned that.”
“I hate that this works,” I go on. “That you drop to your knees, and suddenly everything in me wants to forgive you, because at least you get it. I hate that you’re the one person who can break me, and then put me back together like you’re assembling some fucked up puzzle.”
His mouth softens. “I’m trying to put you back together better than you were, not into what you were before. Into something that’s yours—not your parents’, not your church’s, not mine.”
“Pretty sure letting a serial killer kneel at my feet and apologize like this isn’t in any self-help book,” I mutter.
He shrugs, the movement small on those broad shoulders. “Fuck self-help books. They don’t have chapters for us.”
That drags another laugh out of me, wetter this time. I slide off the couch and onto my knees in front of him before I can overthink it. Our faces are suddenly level, his eyes widening slightly, but he doesn’t move away.
My fingers slide from his cheek into his hair, cradling the back of his head. I lean forward until our foreheads touch, the same way he did to me earlier.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. I forgive you. It still hurts. I’m still going to bring it up when you do something dumb in the future, because I’m petty. But I forgive you.”
He exhales, the sound shaky—relief and pain wrapped together. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and there’s no arrogance in it. Just raw gratitude.
“Get up,” I say again, nudging his shoulder. “My anxiety can’t handle you on your knees for this long. The universe will see this, and decide to smite us both.”
He huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to trigger your ‘smite kink’,” he says, because he can’t help himself.
“I don’t have a ‘smite kink’,” I protest.
“You have a me kink,” he says, pushing himself up, muscles flexing under my hands. “Close enough.”
He settles back onto the couch beside me, and I immediately fold into him, my body moving before my brain can second-guess. He wraps his arms around me, one draped over my shoulders and the other pulling me in at the waist, until I’m half in his lap again, tucked against his chest.
His heartbeat is still fast, but this time, mine matches it.