Chapter 37
I tried to scream. But all I saw was a dark, endless abyss, shadows stretching and twisting like claws reaching for me.
My lips refused to move, my lungs burned for air, and in the blackness, a silhouette loomed closer, tall, menacing, yet strangely familiar.
"Habibi...?" My voice cracked into nothingness.
Sanaa? Sanaa?
My heart slammed against my ribs, but no sound emerged.
The silhouette extended its hand, and I felt cold tendrils coil around me, dragging me deeper into darkness.
Panic clawed at my chest.
The walls were closing in, whispers echoing in tones only I could hear. You failed. You abandoned me. You let me die.
I jolted awake, sunlight stabbing through the blinds. My body shuddered, sweat clinging to my skin.
"Fuck..." I groaned, muscles aching from a night far heavier than my dreams should have allowed.
I lifted myself from the sheets, sitting still for a good second as I tried to process the nightmare I just experienced.
Today was supposed to be my day off. It was Mayami's order, not mine.
"For everyone's sanity, Versace, take a break." Her words had been more of a threat than a suggestion.
Fine. A day off, then.
I rolled my eyes, plans already waited. I dressed in casual cargo jeans and a hoodie, the kind I wore back when I still had freedom, when I first met him, when life felt like it belonged to me.
A quiet knock at my door pulled me from my thoughts.
"Vee? Are you up?" Sanaa's voice was tentative, careful.
My eyes drifted to the door, and the nightmare resurfaced, claws still scraping at my chest.
I opened it. Her bright eyes shone like a fragile promise, and Asvika popped up behind her. "Morning. Where are you off to so early?"
"I have some business to check," I murmured, neutral, careful.
My eyes flickered to their outfits; they were casual but coordinated. "What about you two?"
"We—" Asvika said, clinging to Sanaa. Sanaa smiled softly. "Are going clothes shopping and hanging out today."
I caught the warmth between them, a small bubble of normalcy amid chaos. I felt a pang of guilt. I'm sorry, Sanaa, I thought. But it's hard to pretend everything's fine.
"I'll be leaving now. Have fun," I said, moving toward the door. Sanaa's eyes flickered with concern? Hesitation? But she said nothing more.
I could feel her eyes on me from upstairs as I hopped onto one of my bikes.
The Versace estate blurred behind me as I rode. Wind against my face, adrenaline in my veins, it almost felt like the world was simple again. Almost.
By the time I reached Dominic's estate, the sky had sharpened into a perfect, clear blue.
The security guard's eyes widened as he scrambled to open the gates. "Miss Versace? What brings you here?"
"I have a few things to discuss with Mr. Moretti."
He nodded, weary.
"Is he in?"
"Yes of course, Miss. You can go inside."
My chest tightened at the thought of him, the man I both feared and hated, the man whose hands orchestrated terror. Yet, in a twisted way, saved Sanaa.
I remembered breaking down in relief the day I learned he hadn't hurt her, how I had clung to him. Crimson stained my cheeks at the memory.
How embarrassing, Versace.
I pushed the heavy doors open, taking off my shoes in the corner. There were no workers around.
Inside, the kitchen was pristine, immaculate. I took the stairs and pushed open the study door.
"Dominic, we need to talk," I called, voice steady but tense.
The room was silent except for the ticking clock. His absence made me pause. Where could he be?
I was about to walk away when I spotted a tie on the floor.
There he was, slumped beneath the desk, pale, sweat glistening, eyes half-lidded. My breath hitched.
"D-Dominic!" I dropped beside him, pressing a hand to his cheek. Burning. Too hot.
"Ara. What are you doing here?" His voice was weak yet amused.
"Dominic, you're not in good shape. Where's your assistant? I need to call—" I stopped as his hand covered my lips.
"No, please. Don't alert anyone. My second in command is out. The last thing I need is anyone thinking I'm vulnerable right now."
A faint, wry smile tugged at his lips. "Sickness doesn't stop business. Or mistakes," he muttered.
I rolled up my sleeves. "Come on, let's get you to your bed."
He resisted, staggering under his own weight. I caught him, lifting him carefully.
Gosh! I could feel the pain in my spine as I tried to lift him. How heavy was this man?
With much struggle, we reached the bedroom and I tossed him poorly onto the bed. He groaned, huffing.
"I'll be right back." I dashed downstairs for the first aid kit and quickly prepared a hot medicinal soup, heart hammering with fear.
I refuse to lose anyone else. Especially not one I have unfinished business with.
Back upstairs, I spoon-fed him the medicine soup. The smell made me gag but he would feel better in no time.
How was I sure? I was not even a doctor.
"Feeling better?"
"Medicine doesn't work immediately, Ara," he wheezed.
I rested his head on my lap, wiping his forehead to cool the fever.
An hour passed, and every inch of his body burned hotter, his breath shallow.
My pulse raced.
Should I call 911? He didn't want me to. Fine. I am Versace. I can take care of a sick patient.
"Dominic, you need a running shower to help with your temperature."
He nodded trying to rise, but he faltered, and I caught him mid-step.
"You can't go alone. You'll fall." My voice was firmer than I intended, pulse quickening. "Really badly."
"I... I can manage," he rasped, trembling hands betraying him.
"No. Not like this. I'll help you."
We staggered together into the shower and steam wrapped around us like a protective shield.
I held him close, guiding him under the water.
My clothes were soaked, his shirtless chest pressed against me, warm and alive.
"You're... ridiculous," he muttered, half-smile tugging at his lips. His hazel eyes drowsy. "Always acting like you're not afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid," I replied, the flicker of thrill and warning coursing through me. "I'm practical."
I placed my hand on his forehead again as his eyes trained on me. Temperature checked. Slightly cooling. Thank God.
"Dominic, go get changed. I need to do the same."
He stepped out.
I picked a pair of shorts and a big T-shirt from his closet. The scent of the designer wears, his clothing swallowed me.
Back in the bedroom, I combed his hair, drying him carefully. His head in my lap, he stared, vulnerability raw. I saw beyond the calculating man to someone who survived impossible choices.
"Do you feel better now?" I asked.
He nodded, a small smile forming. "You are actually good at this, for someone who always looks for ways to kill me." Suddenly, he pulled me onto his lap.
My eyes widened.
He groaned, low and hungry, tilting his hips closer, grinding lightly against me. The friction made my breath catch in my throat, and I clutched at him, unable to resist.
"Tell me to stop, Ara." He rasped, eyes dark, half-lidded, burning with need.
I swallowed hard, voice trembling. "I—"
Before I could finish, he slammed his lips onto mine, tongue probing, hands roaming, pulling me impossibly close.
Heat pooled low in my stomach as his hands lingered under my shirt, tracing every curve, testing boundaries.
My own hands tangled in his hair, gripping, pulling him closer, tasting, feeling, every inch of him claiming me like I'd been missing this for years.
"God, Ara..." he murmured against my lips, voice hoarse, half-pleading, half-commanding.
The warmth of his chest pressed into mine, every inhale a reminder of his strength, his danger, the way he could ruin me with one touch.
I pressed my body fully against him, grinding softly, daring, testing how far we could go before the world crashed in.
The sound of our lips meeting, wet, greedy, desperate, filled the room.
His tongue sought mine, tasting, claiming, and I responded in kind, giving, taking, surrendering.
"Shit, you're... relentless," he whispered, catching my jaw in his hands, tilting my head back. His thumbs traced my cheeks, grounding me even as my pulse screamed, my body on fire.
I teased him, dragging my teeth lightly over his bottom lip. He groaned, low and throaty, pressing closer. "Ara... stop teasing me," he hissed between kisses.
"Two can play this game, old man," I breathed, arching into him, feeling his hardness through the fabric of his pants.
His hands went lower, under my T-shirt, skimming skin, teasing the curves of my ribs, the hollow of my waist. Every brush of his fingers sent shivers down my spine, a thrill of forbidden closeness.
"Fuck..." he groaned, pulling me flush against him, heat radiating from his chest into mine. "You have no idea what you do to me."
"I think I might," I whispered, lips brushing his ear, teasing, my voice low and sultry. "And you like it."
His hands cupped my hips, tilting me, grinding slowly against me, the friction sending sparks through every nerve ending.
Our breaths were heavy, mingling heat and want. I could feel his pulse racing, strong against my fingertips as I trailed my hands down his chest, memorizing, daring, exploring.
Suddenly, his lips crashed onto mine again, urgent, ravenous, his body pressing me into him like he could consume me whole.
I moaned against him, arching, letting every ounce of restraint slip away. My fingers threaded through his damp hair, tugging, holding, needing.
His tongue probed deeper, dominating, claiming, and I responded in kind, matching him, teasing him, testing limits, the room spinning around the rhythm of our bodies.
Then the world crashed in for a moment, like cold water, but the pressure of Dominic's body, the raw, heated intimacy, made it impossible to think beyond the electric pull between us.
I pulled back slightly, gasping for breath, heart hammering, sweat clinging, skin flushed and sticky.
His hands lingered on my waist, holding me like he could crush or protect me, and I knew the danger wasn't just in the world outside.
It was here, in this room, in this moment, in the heat between us.
"You... you're insane," I whispered, voice trembling.
"And you are impossible to resist," he countered, pressing his forehead to mine, breath mingling, eyes dark and hungry. "Even when I'm sick. Especially when I'm sick."
The intimacy hung between us, thick and heavy, our bodies and hearts both aching for more yet tethered by reality, by stakes, by everything waiting outside the door.
"I have to go," I breathed, pulling my soaked hoodie tighter, grounding myself. "I can't..."
His hand hovered, barely grazing mine, a promise of what lingered, what was possible. "You can," he murmured softly, dark eyes unreadable, every inch of him still aching against me.
I stepped back. Breath shaky, pulse racing, body aching with need and restraint. "I have to go," I said firmly.
He didn't protest. Eyes dark, unreadable. "Ara?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for taking care of me. I feel a lot better."
"It's the least I can do, old man. You didn't kill my best friend."
Then I fucking dashed out.