Chapter 28
ELLIE
Fischer is pacing in the living room when we return to the bungalow. He halts immediately when he catches sight of us, and whatever he sees on our faces causes his mouth to open and eyes to bulge.
“What the fuck happened?” He flicks his eyes over me, as if assessing me for injuries, before leveling them on the three men surrounding me.
Correction—two men.
Dominic has already stormed away, his hands fisted, a tremor reverberating through his body.
My heart breaks for my golden god all over again.
Electricity shoots through me—crackling and pungent—when Aria enters the home behind me. I don’t even have to look over my shoulder to know it’s her. She carries a…presence. Even when I don’t see her, I can sense her, slick and dark, the way a shadow pools under a closed door.
It always begins the same way—a pressure, subtle at first, like a thin film settling over my skin.
Then comes the feeling of being coated, as though the air itself has turned viscous.
My thoughts seem to move slower, wading through something I can’t name, something that clings to me even after I try to shake it off.
The temperature in the room never changes, but the atmosphere thickens.
Corners seem deeper. Colors dim. A quiet warning stirs at the base of my spine, an instinct older than language, whispering, “You are not alone. You are the prey to a predator.”
Aria’s presence has an oiliness to it, an unnatural slickness that makes me feel as if I might slip if I don’t brace myself.
It isn’t loud. It isn’t dramatic. But somehow, it’s worse than all of that—calm, controlled, almost intimate, staggering with its familiarity.
A malevolent awareness brushes against my thoughts with the confidence of something that doesn’t need to be seen to be in control.
That’s what Aria feels like whenever she’s in the room.
I can’t ever escape her.
I swallow around the knot in my throat as I hear rather than see Aria glide away—no doubt returning to her own room. She seems oddly unperturbed that she murdered two people in front of their brother and son.
Just a normal, everyday occurrence for the psycho bitch.
I’m belatedly aware that Beckett has begun filling Fischer in on what transpired at the POP party. My brother’s face drains of color with each and every word, until he’s as white as the sheet billowing behind him. He staggers back and barely manages to collapse on the sofa as his legs give out.
“Fuck, I didn’t know. I swear to you, I didn’t. Aria had me meeting with some executives for a company she’s interested in. She probably just wanted me out of the way. Fuck!”
As Beckett and Fischer talk, Zane turns toward me, his expression uncharacteristically serious. He whispers one word, “Go.”
And I go.
Down the hall, through the door, and into the bedroom-slash-prison we’ve been forced to stay in.
Dominic is sitting on the bed, his head in his hands, a fine tremor radiating through his body. He doesn’t look up when I approach, but I know he’s aware of my presence. His muscles stiffen, though he doesn’t lift his head.
I sit beside Dominic on the edge of the bed, close enough that our shoulders touch.
He doesn’t say anything. He just…sits there, his hands grasping at his unruly blond hair, his eyes boring holes into the floor like the answers to everything might be hiding in the carpet fibers.
I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel,” he finally mutters, voice low and scraped raw.
I shift toward him and slide my hand over his. He doesn’t pull away—thank fuck—but his fingers don’t curl around mine either. They stay there, tired and heavy.
“I don’t think there are any ‘right’ feelings in this situation,” I reply softly.
A part of me can almost relate to him, though in a belated, distant way.
After all, I’ve been grieving my parents for years, only to recently discover they weren’t the people I thought they were.
They were amazing parents, but they did horrible things for the Paragons of Prosperity.
Sometimes, I’ll stay up at night, my mind churning with unanswered questions, wondering what unspeakable crimes my parents committed for the cult.
Did they murder?
Rape?
Or were they oblivious sheep with no idea what they got themselves into?
“It’s hard to justify grieving monsters,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “but grief doesn’t ask for justification.
You can know who they were—every cruelty, every wound they carved into you or another—and still feel the ache when they’re gone.
It isn’t forgiveness and it isn’t love; it’s the mourning of what should have been, the version of them you needed and never got.
Grieving them doesn’t make them better, and it doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”
Dominic lets out a humorless laugh, more breath than sound.
“I hated them, Ellie. Both of them. My whole life, I hated them. And now they’re dead, murdered in front of me, and I’m supposed to…
what? Grieve? Forgive them? Pretend there was something good there?
” His voice cracks at the end, a fracture he tries to physically swallow down.
I squeeze his hand gently. “You don’t have to pretend anything. And you don’t have to forgive them.”
I suspect, out of the two of them, he’s most conflicted about his brother.
Doyle was awful to Dominic growing up, and he obviously participated in POP’s deranged activities—how else had he found my listing on the app?
He helped us a few times, but does that negate all the awful things he did?
Was he looking for redemption or a way to reconcile his relationship with Dominic?
I suppose neither of us has the answers to those questions. The only one who did is…dead.
“I fucking hate them, even now. They’re dead, and this…bitterness remains. This anger. It’s caustic and ugly, but I can’t get rid of it. What kind of person does that make me?”
I move closer until our knees touch, until I can guide his head gently to my shoulder. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then allows himself to lean against me, his soft hair tickling my cheek.
“A human one,” I answer. “A hurt one. Someone who spent years protecting himself the only way he knew how. You weren’t wrong to keep your distance from someone who’d hurt you.”
Dominic’s breath shudders against my collarbone. “I miss my moms,” he whispers, and I feel his tears wetting my skin.
My heart fissures, cracks, deteriorates like tissue paper dipped in water.
All of my guys have…interesting relationships with their parents, but Dominic’s mothers are absolutely wonderful.
Before we came to live with Aria, he was keeping up with them semi-regularly.
They know all about our unconventional relationship and support us one hundred percent.
Currently, they believe the four of us—minus Landon and Ryker, who are “dead” in their eyes—are touring the UK and meeting Beckett’s family.
“I miss them too, but we’ll see them again.” I tighten my grip around him. “And you can be sad your father and brother are gone. And relieved. And guilty. And angry. You can feel all of it at once. None of it cancels anything else out.”
He nods, his face still pressed against the hollow of my throat, his hands clutched at the front of my dress, as if he’s afraid I’ll leave him.
Silly boy.
Doesn’t he realize I’m not going anywhere?
I don’t know how long we hold each other, but I want him to know he doesn’t have to be strong all the time. Not with me. I’ll hold his broken pieces together until he finds the strength to stitch himself back together.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” I whisper. “Not with me. You can feel whatever you need to feel.”
His body trembles, a fine, almost imperceptible shudder.
“I feel… nothing,” he says, his voice hollow.
“And everything. It’s a fucking mess, Ellie.
They were horrible people. They made my life hell.
But they were…they were my family. And now they’re just gone.
And I’m free. I feel like I should be lighter, but I feel empty. ”
“Then let me fill you up,” I murmur, turning him to face me.
His eyes are red-rimmed, the usual sharp, commanding intelligence clouded by a profound grief he won’t name.
I reach up and cup his face, my thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
“Let me remind you who you are, Dominic. Let me remind you what’s real. ”
I lean in and kiss him. It’s not a kiss of passion but of solace.
My lips are soft against his, a silent promise.
For a moment, he doesn’t respond, a statue carved from sorrow.
Then, with a ragged breath, he wraps his arms around me, crushing me to him.
He deepens the kiss, a desperate, hungry edge to it, like a man drowning and I’m his only source of air.
“I love you,” he whispers, the words raw and broken. “God, Ellie, I love you so much.”
“I love you too,” I breathe back, my hands sliding into his hair, holding him to me. “More than anything.”
His gaze meets mine, and the vulnerability I see there steals my breath. “Show me,” he pleads. “Show me something good. Show me something real.”
I answer him by sliding the straps of my dress down, revealing the simple lace of my bra that I put on after my time with Zane.
His eyes trace the curve of my breasts, his expression softening from anguish to reverence.
He reaches out, his fingers tracing the strap with a touch so light it feels like a prayer.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re the best thing in my life. The only real thing.”
He unfastens my bra, his knuckles brushing against my skin.
He cups my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples, which tighten under his touch.
Leaning down, he takes one into his mouth, his tongue gentle, worshipful.
It’s not about arousal; it’s about connection.
It’s about grounding himself in my body, in my love.
“I need you,” he says against my skin. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel you.”
“Then have me,” I whisper, my hands going to the button of his trousers. “I’m yours, Dominic. Always.”
Standing, he unzips his pants, letting them fall to the floor.
He quickly sheds the rest of our clothes until there’s nothing between us but skin and the faint light from the window.
He positions himself between my legs, his cock hard and heavy against my entrance, though he doesn’t push inside, not yet.
Instead, he looks at me, his eyes roving over my face, as if trying to memorize every line, every freckle.
“You are my home, Ellie,” he says, his voice thick with unshed tears. “You’re everything.”
Then, slowly, he pushes into me. He fills me completely, a slow, deep, deliberate joining that feels less like sex and more like a sacred vow.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, my arms encircling his neck.
He begins to move, his thrusts slow and rhythmic, a steady, rocking motion that’s both comforting and intensely intimate.
“You’re so good,” he groans, his face buried in my neck. “You feel so good. So perfect for me.”
I hold him tighter, my fingers forking through his hair. “You’re a good man, Dominic,” I whisper into his ear. “The best. Don’t ever let them make you forget that.”
He lifts his head, and his emerald eyes search mine. In their depths, I see the storm of his pain beginning to calm, the chaos receding, replaced by the unwavering light of his love for me. He increases his pace, his hips rolling against mine, each movement a declaration.
“I love you,” he says, again and again, a litany against the darkness. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
“I love you,” I answer, my voice catching. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
The pleasure builds, not a frantic fire but a slow, blooming warmth that spreads through my entire body.
It’s in the way he looks at me, in the way his hands hold me like I’m precious, in the way he moves inside me with such profound tenderness.
When my orgasm comes, it’s a gentle wave, a soft, cresting release that leaves me trembling and breathless.
He follows me over, a deep, shuddering groan escaping his lips as he buries himself deep inside me, his body pouring all his pain, his love, his relief, into mine.
He collapses against me, his weight a welcome anchor. We stay like that for a long time, our bodies entwined on the bed, the moon shining through the window our only witness. He’s still inside me, still connected, and I feel the last of the tension leave his body, replaced by a bone-deep peace.
He lifts his head, his eyes clear now, the sorrow replaced by a quiet, fierce love. He presses a lingering kiss to my lips.
“Thank you,” he whispers. And I know he’s not only thanking me for the sex. He’s thanking me for saving him.