5. Elena #2
He pulled up in front of my building, the engine idling, neither of us moving to get out.
“I’m sorry,” I said finally. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just need…”
“Space. I know. You said.” His voice was flat, emotionless. “Take your space, Elena. Take all the time you need. When you figure out what you want, let me know.”
I got out of the car, the October night cold against my skin, and watched him drive away without looking back. The dismissal stung more than I wanted to admit, the sudden withdrawal of his attention leaving me feeling unmoored, uncertain, as though I’d failed some test I hadn’t known I was taking.
Upstairs, I poured myself wine and tried to convince myself I’d done the right thing, that asking for space was healthy, that Lucia’s warnings were valid and I was being smart by pumping the brakes.
The conviction felt hollow, undermined by the ache in my chest, by the way I kept checking my phone for texts that didn’t come, by the realization that in two weeks, Dominic Russo had become so integrated into my life that his absence felt like loss.
Three days passed without contact. Three days of silence that felt like punishment, like withdrawal, like proof that his interest had been conditional on my compliance.
I went through my routines of class, rehearsal, coffee, walks.
Everything felt diminished, less vibrant, as though Dominic’s presence had been adding color to my world and his absence had returned everything to grayscale.
Lucia noticed my mood, her expression sympathetic rather than triumphant. “You asked for space. He’s giving it to you. That’s good, right?”
“Right,” I agreed, not believing it.
“Elena…”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She let it drop, though I could feel her concern following me like a shadow.
On the fourth day, I broke. I texted him: I’m sorry about the other night. Can we talk?
His response came within minutes: I have a game tonight. Come.
Not an invitation. A command. I should have bristled at the presumption, should have insisted on setting my own terms. Instead, I found myself agreeing, found myself dressing carefully in jeans and a Admirals jersey I’d bought that afternoon, found myself taking a car to Commonwealth Arena like I was being pulled by invisible strings.
The arena was packed, the energy electric, thousands of people screaming for blood and victory.
I found my seat in the front row, center ice, exactly where Dominic would be able to see me and watched as the teams took the ice for warm-ups.
Dominic skated past, his eyes finding mine immediately, his expression unreadable behind his helmet.
The game was brutal. I’d never watched hockey before, had never understood the appeal of violence as sport, yet I couldn’t look away.
Dominic was magnificent. He was fast, aggressive, and utterly dominant.
He moved across the ice like a predator, his body a weapon, his focus absolute.
When he scored in the second period, he skated to the glass directly in front of me, his eyes locked on mine, the message clear: This is for you.
This is what I am. This is what you’re getting if you choose me.
The Admirals won 4-2. After the game, a security guard appeared at my seat, telling me Dominic wanted to see me, leading me through corridors and past locker rooms to a private area where players met with family and friends.
Dominic was waiting, still in his gear, his hair damp with sweat, his body radiating heat and adrenaline and barely contained energy.
“You came,” he said.
“You asked me to.”
“I told you to. There’s a difference.” He stepped closer, invading my space, his presence overwhelming in the confined area. “Did you like the game?”
“You were incredible.”
“I know.” No false modesty, just fact. “I wanted you to see what I am, Elena. I wanted you to understand that I don’t do anything halfway. Not hockey. Not life. Not you.”
“Dominic…”
“You asked for space. I gave it to you. Three days of silence while you figured out what you wanted. Have you figured it out?”
The question hung between us, sharp and unavoidable.
I could lie, could tell him I needed more time, could maintain the fiction that I was in control of this situation.
The truth was that three days without him had been miserable, that I’d missed his texts and his presence and the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
The truth was that Lucia’s warnings were valid and I was ignoring them anyway, choosing intensity over safety, choosing passion over prudence, choosing Dominic despite every rational reason not to.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve figured it out.”
“And?”
“I want this. I want you. I’m scared of how fast this is moving, and I’m scared of how intense you are, and I’m scared that I’m making a mistake, but I want you anyway.”
His smile was triumphant, possessive, the expression of someone who’d just won something valuable. He closed the distance between us, his hands coming up to frame my face, his body pressing mine against the wall.
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because I’m done being patient. I’m done pretending this is casual. You’re mine now, Elena. Say it.”
“Dominic..”
“Say it.”
The command in his voice should have made me balk, should have triggered every warning bell Lucia had installed. Instead, I felt heat flood through me, desire and fear combining into something that made my breath catch.
“I’m yours,” I whispered.
He leaned in, his mouth hovering just above mine, close enough that I could feel his breath, close enough that closing the distance would require only the smallest movement. For a moment, I thought he would kiss me, would claim the intimacy he’d been building toward for two weeks.
Instead, he pulled back, his hands dropping away, his expression satisfied.
“Not yet,” he said. “When I kiss you, it’s going to be because you’re begging for it. Because you can’t stand another second without my mouth on yours. Because you’ve stopped being scared and started being honest about what you want.”
He stepped away, creating space between us, leaving me breathless and frustrated and aching with want.
“I’ll take you home,” he said, his voice returning to normal, as though he hadn’t just pressed me against a wall and demanded my submission. “We have reservations tomorrow night. Oleana again. I want to do this properly.”
The whiplash from intensity to normalcy was disorienting, deliberate, a demonstration of control that left me off-balance and uncertain. I followed him out of the arena, into his car, through the city streets to my apartment, the silence between us charged with everything unsaid.
At my building, he walked me to the door, his hand on my back, his presence solid and reassuring and overwhelming.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Seven o’clock. Wear something I can’t stop looking at.”
“You can’t stop looking at me in anything.”
“True. Wear it anyway.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture now familiar, now loaded with meaning. “Sleep well, Elena. Dream about me.”
He left before I could respond, before I could process what had just happened, before I could examine the mixture of desire and dread churning in my stomach.
Upstairs, I changed into pajamas and poured wine and tried to convince myself I’d made the right choice, that choosing Dominic was brave rather than reckless, that his intensity was passion rather than possession.
The conviction felt fragile, undermined by Lucia’s warnings and my own growing unease and the knowledge that I’d just agreed to something I didn’t fully understand.
My phone buzzed with a text from Dominic: I meant what I said. You’re mine now. Get used to it.
I stared at the message for a long moment, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, trying to formulate a response that didn’t sound too eager or too frightened. Finally, I typed: Goodnight, Dominic.
His response came immediately: Goodnight, beautiful. Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.
I set the phone down and walked to the windows, looking out over the city that had become the stage for this dangerous dance.
Somewhere out there, Marcus was probably reviewing today’s photographs, adding them to his collection.
Somewhere out there, Dominic was probably planning tomorrow’s date, deciding how he would continue claiming territory in my life.
I was caught between them, between violation and validation, between the attention I feared and the attention I’d just agreed to accept.
The difference was supposed to be clear; one was wanted, one was not; yet standing at my window in the darkness, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just made a choice I would come to regret.
The wine was excellent, crisp and cold and exactly what I needed. I finished the glass and went to bed, trying not to think about hazel eyes or possessive declarations or the way Dominic had pressed me against that wall and demanded my submission.
Trying not to think about how much I’d wanted to give it to him.