Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ROSALIA
I clip the leash onto Yapper’s collar and head down the grand staircase, letting the puppy trot happily beside me.
Dominic has been gone for hours, and there's still no sign of him. It’s well into the nighttime now, the sky turned a bruised shade of violet, and both Yapper and I desperately need to stretch our legs.
Not that I'm waiting up for Dominic. I couldn't care less where he is or what dark, dangerous business he's tending to in the middle of the night. I just want some fresh air.
We wander down the winding paved driveway toward the massive iron security gates. Usually, the guards on duty step out, cross their arms, and politely—but firmly—remind me of Dominic's strict orders never to step foot off the estate grounds without an armed escort.
But as I approach the entrance, to my absolute shock, the two guards at the booth simply nod respectfully, punch the button, and let the heavy iron gates swing wide open. They don't say a word. They don't try to stop me.
A sudden, thrilling rush of excitement surges through my chest. If Dominic were home, this never would have happened in a million years. I've been confined to this gilded fortress for what feels like an eternity, only ever leaving when he has somewhere specific to take me.
I don't waste a single second. I step right past the threshold and onto the quiet, asphalt road outside the estate.
The evening breeze is cool against my face, carrying the fresh, earthy scent of the surrounding woods. I walk down the quiet stretch of road, Yapper scampering happily beside me, sniffing at the tall grass along the curb.
Suddenly, a small squirrel darts across the pavement, and Yapper lets out a ferocious little bark, straining against his collar as he tries to give chase.
I tighten my grip on the leash, letting out a bright, genuine laugh as I pull him back. "Nice try, little guy, but you're not catching that."
Before the laughter can even clear my throat, a large, black van screeches around the dark curve ahead, its tires wailing against the pavement.
It pulls up sideways, blocking the road just twenty feet away.
The side door violently slams open. Three men in dark clothes and tactical masks leap out, the steel blades of long knives flashing under the dim streetlights.
My heart drops into my stomach, pure adrenaline surging through my veins. I instantly fall back into a defensive stance, my eyes darting between them.
As they close the distance, I try to pull Yapper back and run. They're moving in a coordinated flank, trying to grab my arms, to corner me, to throw me into the back of that van.
I realize they aren't trying to kill me. They are trying to take me.
"Get off me!" I scream, driving my heel hard into the shin of the first man who lunges for my wrist. He grunts, stumbling backward, but the second man grabs my arm from behind, his rough fingers digging brutally into my skin.
I twist violently, driving my elbow back into his nose with everything I have. Bone crunches, and he lets out a muffled curse, loosening his grip just enough for me to tear free.
Before the third man can grab my waist, a high-pitched, furious growl echoes through the air. Yapper doesn't run. The tiny puppy launches himself forward with terrifying courage, sinking his sharp little teeth right into the ankle of the third attacker.
"Gah! Fucking rat!" the man shouts, stumbling backward, wildly shaking his leg to kick the dog off.
It buys me two precious seconds. I draw back my fist and swing straight for the eyes of the man lunging at me next, fighting with every drop of defiant rage left in my body. But the impact barely registers before the man recovers, diving forward to pin my arms behind my back in a brutal vice grip.
I thrash violently, kicking and screaming, but the weight of the two grown men completely overwhelms me. They lift me off my feet, hauling my writhing body toward the open side door of the dark van.
Below us, Yapper refuses to give up. The brave little puppy circles their boots, barking hysterically, snapping at their pant legs to try and free me.
"Get this fucking pest off me!" one of the men growls, drawing his heavy boot back.
"No! Don't touch him!" I scream, the sound tearing raw from my throat.
The man kicks out, his boot catching Yapper square in his ribs, sending the small dog tumbling into the gravel grass with a pained, sharp yelp.
"YAPPER!" I shriek, tears of pure fury blinding my eyes as I kick wildly against my captors.
Before they can drag me three steps closer to the van, the sharp, deafening screech of burning rubber shatters the night air. A SUV slams to a halt inches from the van's bumper, trapping it completely.
The driver’s side door bursts open.
Like a miracle, Dominic emerges.
The air instantly drops ten degrees. His face is a mask of pure, unadulterated death—his jaw locked, eyes blacked out with a terrifying rage that makes the three attackers freeze in their tracks. He doesn't say a word. He doesn't make a threat.
In one fluid, blindingly fast motion, Dominic draws his suppressed firearm.
Pfft. Pfft.
Two clean shots ring out in quick succession. The two men holding me collapse instantly onto the cold asphalt, dead before they hit the ground.
I drop to my knees, gasping for air, but before the third man—the one who kicked Yapper—can even reach for his knife, Dominic closes the distance in two long strides.
He grabs the man by his throat, slamming him violently against the side of the van, and drives a heavy blade straight up beneath the man's jaw, killing him where he stands with terrifying, cold-blooded efficiency.
Silence returns to the dark road, save for the idling rumble of the SUV's engine.
Dominic drops the lifeless body to the pavement like trash. He steps over the blood, his breathing heavy, his dark eyes sweeping over me to check for injuries. The murderous fury in his expression instantly melts into stark, fierce concern.
Without waiting for me to stand, he bends down, scoops me up into his arms like a bride, and cradles me firmly against his broad, warm chest.
"Dominic..." I choke out, my hands clutching his dark coat, pointing weakly toward the grass.
But I don’t need to speak; it’s like he understands me.
Dominic pauses, scanning the curb until he spots the puppy shaking in the weeds. He gently leans down to scoop Yapper up with his free hand and tucks the trembling dog safely against my chest before marching straight back toward his SUV, holding us both like his entire world depended on it.
He puts me and Yapper in the back seat and slams the door shut before getting behind the wheel and starting to drive the short distance back to the estate.
"Dominic... Yapper was kicked," I whisper, my voice shaking as I cradle the small, trembling dog against my lap. "He needs a vet. Please."
He doesn't respond. He doesn't even look back in the rearview mirror, but I can see his knuckles turned stark white on the leather steering wheel, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles are visibly twitching. He picks up his phone, taps the screen, and presses it to his ear.
"Something happened," Dominic says into the speaker, his tone dangerously low, vibrating with suppressed violence. "I need a doctor and a vet at the house immediately."
He hangs up without waiting for an answer. I can tell he’s trying to exert every ounce of his self-control to keep his anger from exploding right here in the car.
The moment we pull up to the front entrance, the wooden doors fly open.
Helena and Keane step out, both of them freezing in complete shock as they take in the scene—Dominic striding up the steps with me cradled in his arms, covered in dirt and dark stains, holding a whimpering Yapper against my chest.
"My goodness! What happened?!" Helena gasps, her hands flying to her mouth.
"The doctor and vet are already en route," Keane says quickly, stepping out of the way to give us room, his face grave. "They'll be here in five minutes."
A sharp, throbbing ache blooms across my ribs, and when I glance down, I notice a tear in my sweater where dark blood has soaked through the fabric.
I think one of those knives grazed me in the struggle, though with all the adrenaline pumping through my veins, it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it looks bad.
"Dominic, what on earth—" Helena rushes after us, her voice tight with panic as Dominic ignores everyone, carrying me straight down the grand corridor toward the master suite.
"Keane, wait in the study," Dominic barks over his shoulder, his tone cutting through the hallway like a blade. "We need to talk."
Keane nods once and immediately turns toward the office, while Helena follows us into the bedroom. Dominic gently places me down on the edge of the bed, setting Yapper down right beside me. Helena hurries over, gently pulling back the torn fabric of my sweater to inspect the wound.
"It's just a shallow graze, thank God," Helena breathes out a quiet sigh of relief, reaching for a clean cloth to press against it. "It's not deep, sweetie. You're going to be just fine."
Dominic stands at the foot of the bed, staring at the blood on my clothes, his dark eyes completely unreadable, heavy with a suffocating, lethal weight. He takes a slow, deep breath, forcing his posture to settle.
He turns his dark gaze to me. "I'll be back," he says, his voice gravelly. "I have to take care of some stuff."
I look up at him, understanding the storm brewing beneath his quiet exterior, and manage a small, reassuring smile. "Okay."
He nods once, turns on his heel, and walks out of the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him.