Chapter 8 - Dominic
Seven years ago
Rain hammered down as Dominic cut across the trees towards the Hawthorne house. The storm made good cover. No one stopped the Alpha’s son from doing whatever he wanted, but that didn’t mean he liked being monitored.
The Hawthorne place sat at the edge of Skymist, a slant-roofed cottage caught between the coast and the forest. Light burned behind one window where every other house on the lane was dark. Dominic took the steps two at a time and knocked once.
The door opened. But it wasn’t Theodore who met him.
Layla stood there.
If she was scared, she didn’t show it. She’d done a good job these past months of hiding her fear from him.
From all of them. Her chin was set in a stubborn jut, hazel eyes glaring in her heart-shaped face.
Her long, honey-colored hair was thrown into a bun, and she tugged on the edges of her worn green knit cardigan, pulling it tight against her body.
If the action meant to conceal, it did the opposite. The fabric instead stretched over her wide hips and large breasts, the soft flesh at her waist yielding to the wool.
Dominic swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
“He’s not here,” she said, voice flat.
He started at her voice, blinking, before a scowl settled on his face. “We’re running drills.”
“He’s not here,” she repeated, knuckles white where she clutched the door.
Ah. So she was scared.
He tried not to think too hard about the tightening in his stomach.
“Do you know where he went?” Dominic asked.
“How should I know?” she said. “He spends most of his time with you.”
He had no answer for that. So instead, he stepped forward, using his sheer size to force his way into the house. Layla gasped, throwing herself back against the wall as if his mere touch would scald her.
“Hey, what are you-”
“Theo!” he bellowed, voice shaking the walls, “Get your ass down here!”
“I told you already,” Layla squeaked, darting in front of him, “he’s not here, you’re going to wake the neighbors—”
He stooped down, baring his teeth. “I don’t give a fuck.”
Her mouth closed with an audible snap. For a moment, they stood there, too close, and without meaning to, his gaze dropped to her lips.
Fuck.
He didn’t know when it had started. When her flushed face and balled fists had turned from a source of amusement to something else. Something more primal. He knew he had been cruel to her. He couldn’t stop himself. Not when she reacted so deliciously.
He told himself he just relished the feeling of power it gave him to put her in her place. Because to even consider the alternative…
“You’re completely insufferable, you know that?” she said, pushing past him into the kitchen, “Just because you’re the son of the Alpha, it doesn’t mean you can do whatever you want!”
“On the contrary, mutt,” he said, “it means I can do whatever I want.”
Her eyes narrowed, her shoulders set square. “Don’t call me that.”
“What, mutt?”
She stared at him, a thousand emotions swimming across her eyes, before turning abruptly to the kettle. With methodical, slow movements, she began to make a cup of tea. He pretended not to notice her hands trembling.
He watched her as she filled the kettle, reached for a mug, chose what tea she wanted. She went for an English Breakfast. Odd. Normally, she liked a herbal blend, something aromatic and full of fruit or spice.
He shook his head almost violently. Since when did he know what sort of tea Layla Hawthorne enjoyed?
Eventually, she figured out she couldn’t ignore him any longer. With a sigh, she turned, holding her mug to her chest as if it were a shield.
“Why are you here, Dominic?”
He shifted his weight. “I told you. I’m looking for Theodore.”
Her eye twitched. “And as we’ve established, he’s not here.”
He shrugged. “He might come back.”
It sounded lame even to him.
The sound of the rain filled the silence, drumming against the window. Beneath it, angry and churning, the ocean crashed against the shore.
Layla’s fingernails tapped against the mug.
“Can I ask you something?” she said suddenly.
He regarded her warily, but she didn’t seem like she was about to attack. She just looked…tired.
“What?”
She peered down at her tea, a small frown creasing her forehead. He’d almost decided she’d reconsidered talking when she finally spoke.
“Why are you so cruel to me?”
He stared at her, dumbfounded, but she wasn’t deterred. If anything, his shock seemed to spur her on.
“I mean, Theodore is your best friend. Yet you constantly torment me for my breeding, my bloodline, my house, all of it. I don’t get it.”
“Theo’s strong,” Dominic said, “strength is everything in a pack. You know that.”
“Do I?” she asked, her eyes wide. Eighteen years old, she was. And it seemed she’d found her bite.
He scoffed, turning from her, setting his gaze out the window. She was being childish. He didn’t owe her an explanation; he didn’t owe anybody an explanation. He was the son of the Alpha. He could do as he pleased.
“Where the fuck is Theo,” he muttered, fists clenching. “You shouldn’t be here on your own.”
That earned him a bark of laughter, “I live here,” she said, “and I’m not alone.”
“You are,” he said before he could stop himself, “most nights.”
Her gaze flicked to his, sharp, “Why do you care?”
“As you say,” he replied, “you’re my best friend’s sister.”
Her expression grew angry, “So you’ll happily bully me all you like, but I’m supposed to see it as some kind of affection? I’m supposed to know that deep down, you really care about me, because family does actually mean something to you? Give me a break.”
He took a step forward, something deep and animalistic satisfied at the instant bow of her head, the unconscious submission.
“Careful,” he said quietly.
“Or what?” Her jaw worked as she stared at the floor, defiant despite her instincts. “You’ll yell at me? Call me weak? You’ve been doing that for years. It’s lost its sting.”
“Has it,” he said.
“Yes.” Her breath hitched on the word and steadied. “I’m not a little girl anymore who cries just because some boy makes fun of her. And like it or not, you’re not your father. You just pretend to be cruel because you think it makes you strong. It doesn’t.”
The room seemed to narrow, fold inwards, cramped and heated. He considered a million things, then. Shouting. Growling. Shifting. But something in her words grounded him. Kept him caught in the moment.
“You don’t get to pick and choose what I am to you,” she said, “and you don’t get to pretend to worry about me when you’re hiding from the truth.”
He snarled, his head turning to the window. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Her chin lifted. “Then tell me.”
He looked back at her then. He saw her swallow. Saw a pulse beat at her throat. Felt his blood heat.
“Layla.” It came out rougher than a warning, softer than a plea.
“Dominic.”
He didn’t remember closing the last of the distance, only the soft heat when his fingers found her waist, the way her hands were already in his shirt, reckless and desperate.
She met him with fury, with a sound that tore through him and calmed something at the same time.
He tasted rage and longing, and he didn’t know who it belonged to.
“Tell me to stop,” he said against her mouth, because one of them had to say it.
“Why?” she breathed, and pulled him back down.
There were a dozen reasons to show caution, and they ignored them all.
The room blurred into breath and heat and the irresistible shock of being wanted by the one person you’d forbidden yourself to desire.
He remembered her hands shaking as they clung to him, not from fear but from the overwhelming rush of everything colliding together all at once.
He remembered the way she said his name the second time. And the third.
The candles she always burned flickered low, throwing the room into a softer dark.
The rest became quiet. Two breaths mingling and slowing, the patter of rain, the faint scrape as his hand found hers on the blanket they’d dragged to the floor like an afterthought.