Yearn

Chapter 22 Law and Order

Chapter twenty-two

Law and Order

Teyonah

The drive home felt like I was steering through a thunderstorm no one else could see.

Streetlights strobed across the windshield while my brain ran every version of “put him to sleep” on a loop—Scott snoring on the couch, Scott slumped on the floor, Scott not breathing at all as Dominic buried him in the backyard.

Lord Jesus, what am I about to walk into?

My hands cramped around the wheel.

I kept checking the rearview like guilt had a siren.

At every red light I pictured the boys’ faces if something was wrong, then pictured Dominic’s eyes when he texted me, calm as a shut door.

By the time I turned onto our block, I’d written and erased ten Law and Order Homicide outcomes in my head, none of them merciful, all of them waiting behind my front door.

I parked quick, got out, and rushed forward.

Please God. Don’t let it be too bad.

But before I could get to the door, I caught movement next door.

Mrs. Patterson was at her post, glowing behind the glass like she owned the neighborhood. She had a new floral robe on—lavender with pale pink hibiscus—and her hair was done up in soft rollers that gleamed under the lamp.

She had a glass of something brown in one hand and a remote in the other.

When our eyes met, she smiled and lifted her fingers in a slow mischievous wave that was different than her other ones.

Huh?

Paranoia hit me, I froze halfway through turning the key at the front door.

Did you see something?

Mrs. Patterson didn’t break eye contact until her show started flashing blue light across her face. That was when she turned her head.

Please God. Don’t let it be too bad.

I entered.

The house was holding its breath when I came in.

Did Dominic kill Scott?

The TV washed the living room in a blue-gray flicker, the kind that made everything look colder and cheaper. Scott was sprawled on the couch like a toppled statue, one arm flung over his chest, the other hanging toward the floor.

His mouth was sagged open.

His snores were shallow and wrong—thin sounds that caught in his throat every few seconds and let go.

Okay. . .his dumbass is alive.

The air smelled like hops and old grease.

Empty beer bottles crowded the coffee table. A McDonald’s bag gaped on its side with fries going limp in the light. A smear of ketchup was on a crumpled napkin.

Of course he didn’t clean up after himself.

Last weekend, Dominic had a whole cleaning crew come in and make the house smell good and sparkle.

Barely days later, Scott has made everything messy and stunk up the place.

I hate him.

Still. . .for a few beats I stood next to the couch, watching his ribcage rise, stutter, fall.

Yep. . .the bastard is alive.

Relief and disgust hit me.

Breathe, and go check on J and Oliver.

I went softly up the stairs.

Heel to toe.

Weight balanced.

The nightlight in the hallway warmed the edges of the family photos. Their doors were ajar. I nudged each one with my fingers and quietly peered in.

J had starfished on top of their blanket, a paperback splayed like a tent over their stomach.

In his own room, Oliver was burrowed under his covers, only curls visible, hugging his stuffed dinosaur.

He had a television on with cartoon credits running on a loop.

Of course Scott didn’t do any bedtime routine. Probably just told them to go in their rooms and go to sleep.

I snuck in and turned off Oliver’s television.

Something inside me unclenched, only to knot again.

I watched Oliver for too long, more guilt and relief scissoring in my chest until I couldn’t tell which was sharper. Then I eased the door back to the same sliver it had been when I arrived and returned downstairs.

Alright. So. . .everything is okay.

On the way back through the living room I had to pass Scott again.

The TV glow rolled blue light across Scott’s face.

His lashes fluttered with a dream.

The empty beer bottles caught the light.

Dominic said he put him to sleep. How?

I leaned over to the table and sniffed at one of the bottles. It could have been my imagination but I swore there was a chemical tang riding the beer.

That’s not just hops. Right?

I sniffed again and realized it was only the scent of beer.

Still, my stomach dropped through the floor.

The beer had to be the way he drugged him.

I crossed the room and stopped when I was close enough to see the tiny twitch in Scott’s cheek, the faint shine of spittle in the corner of his mouth.

I hated him for being in my house.

I hated him for sleeping in it.

I hated him for forcing me to sneak around with Dominic now that he was here.

My disgust for him reared up higher and steadier than ever before.

It might have been better if he was. . .dead. . .

Terrified at that thought, I backed away.

No. Don’t think like that. Go downstairs.

It barely took two minutes for me to get out of the house and head to Dominic.

The night air pressed cool and damp against my face.

Next door, Mrs. Patterson’s window was still glowing, but instead of her usual quiet vigilance, she was on her feet, clapping at the television like a woman at a revival.

Her voice carried across the hedges—something about a game show or a rerun.“Come on now, baby! Double or nothing!”

A fork gleamed in her other hand. “Yes, Lord! That’s how you do it!”

I ducked low, biting back a laugh that came out as a shaky exhale. My heart pounded, half from nerves, half from ridiculous gratitude.

If Mrs. Patterson was busy cheering at the TV, she wasn’t watching me sneak out the back like a guilty teenager and head to Dominic.

Thank God.

I slipped through the yard, keeping to the shadows.

The sound of her clapping faded behind me, and for a strange, fleeting second, I wished the woman luck with her late-night contestants.

Then I turned toward Dominic’s entrance.

The basement door was heavy; the wood had swelled in the evening’s humidity. I pulled gently and then slipped in, letting it close behind me without a click.

I took the steps.

Hand on the rail.

Anger and adrenaline made my knees weak.

With each stair, the house above me felt farther and the gravity under my feet stronger.

What is he going to say?

At the bottom, I got to Dominic’s door and knocked once.

For a beat there was only my pulse ticking in my throat.

Then the latch turned.

The door opened a handspan, then wider, and Dominic filled the frame like a shadow stepping forward to become a man.

Fuck.

He was bare from the waist up, skin tanned and mapped with muscle.

A thin sheen of sweat gleamed at his collarbones.

His jaw was tight.

His eyes were worse: not wild, not soft as usual, just dark and intense.

I took him in all at once and felt the wrongness and the want hit me together.

His voice was low. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” I whispered, and hated how breathless it sounded.

Behind him, I clocked the details like evidence: a folded towel on the back of the chair, a closed emergency kit with a single hypodermic needle laid across the lid, a beer cap flattened into a crescent on the counter.

No mess.

Nothing dramatic.

But his face—God—his face looked like he’d been speaking to a darker part of himself and hadn’t told it no.

Dominic watched me. “Is Scott still asleep?”

“Yes.”

His mouth twitched. “Good. I didn’t give him a lot, but we should have more time.”

He looked at me like he’d solved a problem. Like drugging Scott wasn’t a crime but a correction.

A spark of terror licked my spine.

I swallowed. “How long is he going to be asleep?”

“Long enough.”

Another spark—hotter, lower—answered it.

Fuck. My life is out of control.

My boys slept above my head. Their father lay drugged on our couch. And here I was staring at the breadth of this man’s chest, at the veins in his forearms, feeling the air change simply because he had opened the door.

For half a second, a thought flared and made me dizzy: he could kill Scott. If he wanted to, he could. And the shameful thing was that some small, furious part of me didn’t know if I would stop him.

Dominic stepped back with a silent invitation. His gaze never left my face. “Come in.”

I walked in and the hallway’s dimness dissolved.

Dominic’s space hit me in layers.

The first was sound: a hush of soft jazz, saxophone pouring honey into the corners of the room and laying out a lazy, intimate melody.

Then scent came next—warm candle wax, a thread of sandalwood, and something faintly floral underneath.

His apartment didn’t look like its usual self.

No open textbooks.

No notes stacked.

And there were new surprises.

Three candles burned in a line on his dresser. There was now a short vase of white flowers on the desk—peonies or garden roses.

A bottle of red wine waited in a metal bucket packed with ice.

He had made a place for us on his bed—throw blanket folded, pillows angled forward.

Dominic shut the door.

Then, my gaze went back to the evidence—the emergency kit, needle, and beer top—on the table.

My brain assembled the crime in pieces. First, he must have opened a beer bottle. Then he added whatever the hell was in that kit. Pressed the cap back down, twisted it closed like nothing had happened. Carried it upstairs.

How did he get Scott to drink it? Why does he have the beer cap now?

He definitely hadn’t handed it to Scott like he was doing him a favor.

But surely, he waited in the backyard, watched Scott from the window, and waited for him to drink the drugged beer bottle.

My chest went tight.

I glanced back at the bed and felt heat climb my throat. And the terrifying thing was. . .Dominic looked at me now as if putting Scott to sleep wasn’t just acceptable.

It was completely justified.

My stomach knotted.

Holy shit.

That should have been a stop sign.

The end of everything.

No decent person would think that was okay.

And yet—my thighs pressed together. Heat flooded there because part of me was glad. Glad Scott was unconscious upstairs. Glad I didn’t have to hear his gaslighting tonight, smell his sweat, and endure his cruel smugness.

What kind of woman does that make me?

I folded my arms tight against my chest, but it didn’t stop the truth in my body: I wanted Dominic. I wanted the man who thought slipping something into my ex’s beer bottle was an act of protection for me.

I looked up at Dominic.

Silent, he stood there like temptation sculpted in muscle and shadow, eyes dark enough to swallow the light of the candles. And I thought about my boys sleeping safely above us, untouched by Scott’s chaos tonight, because of him.

Isn’t that fatherhood too? Sacrifice? Ruthlessness? Clearing the path for peace? Or is that just psychotic violence dressed up as devotion?

The philosopher in me wanted to scream no.

But the woman in me—the tired, aching, desperate-for-relief woman—leaned toward yes.

I stared at him and felt the split in me yawning wider.

One part horrified.

One part wet.

The jazz music curled around us. I realized how quiet I had gone. How hard my heart was working. How absolutely seen I felt, and how dangerous that was.

I broke the silence. “Dominic. . .”

“Yes.”

“What did you do to Scott?”

“That’s not important.”

“It is.” I shivered. “What did you do?

Dominic didn’t rush to answer. Instead, he leaned one broad shoulder against the wall. The pose was deceptively casual. His hand flexed once at his side, veins swelling, then stilled again—like he was reigning something in.

When I didn’t look away, he left the wall and stepped closer.

Just one step, but the air changed with it.

His muscular chest rose slow, deliberate, as if he were syncing his breathing to mine.

“You’re shaking.” He reached his hand to mine and slipped his fingers along my knuckles. “But it’s not fear, or at least. . .not only fear. There’s desire in your trembling.”

I swallowed. “That’s not an answer.”

“Hmmm.” He leaned my way and dipped his head closer to mine, not touching, just hovering close enough for his breath to stir the curls near my temple.

My pulse battered.

His restraint was the most terrifying part—that he could stand there, holding all that muscle and violence back, pretending patience.

“Why won’t you tell me what you did?”

“Because that’s the wrong question.” Dominic’s lips curved, dark and knowing. “Instead. . .you should ask me what I am willing to do next.”

Terror shattered me into pieces.

Holy fuck.