Chapter 22 #2
Walking into the club. Looking for Dominic without admitting to himself that was exactly what he was doing. Pushing him deliberately, winding him up just to see what he’d do with it.
The kiss. That instant in the hallway, adrenaline and heat colliding in a way he still didn’t fully understand. The world had narrowed to nothing but Dominic’s mouth on his.
Knox’s breathing changed without him noticing. The thread in his fingers pulled tighter than it should have.
Dominic noticed. “Easy.”
“Sorry.”
Dominic’s eyes were on him now instead of the stitches. “You’re breathing differently.”
“Just thinking.”
“About tonight?”
Knox didn’t answer right away. He kept his head down, tying off the knot with more care than the stitch required. “Yeah,” he said after a moment.
He reached for the needle again, then realized there was nothing left to do.
The stitches were done. He wrapped a clean bandage over the wound and stepped back—enough that the warmth coming off Dominic didn’t feel quite so immediate—and started packing the kit back together, giving his hands something new to do.
Beside him, Dominic shifted on the stool, testing the movement of his arm. The motion pulled a sharp inhale out of him before he caught it.
Knox noticed. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
“That you’re hurting.”
Dominic flexed his fingers, slow and deliberate. “I didn’t say it didn’t hurt.”
“You just act like it doesn’t.”
“Pain is information,” Dominic said. “It shows others your weaknesses, your breaking points.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“Works for me.”
Knox closed the lid of the kit and rested his palms flat on the counter.
“You look like you’re arguing with your own brain,” Dominic said.
Knox rubbed the back of his neck. “Maybe I am.”
Dominic watched him. “You handled yourself well tonight.”
Knox didn’t answer, because the truth was more complicated than that. The part that bothered him wasn’t that he hadn’t panicked. It was the sick realization that watching Dominic handle that knife—the blood, the control, the absolute finality of it—hadn’t scared him at all.
Not even slightly.
Something dark had stirred awake instead, and Knox had no idea what the hell to do with that. He exhaled slowly and pushed away from the counter. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Knox leaned his hip against the island, arms crossing like he needed to hold himself together. “How do you do that?”
Dominic cocked his head. “Do what?”
Knox gestured vaguely toward him. “All of it.”
Dominic waited.
Knox shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. “Tonight. The cell. The guy with the knife. You act like it’s just… another day.”
“It is,” Dominic said, leaning back on the stool.
Knox stared at him. “None of it bothers you?”
Dominic’s expression barely shifted.
“The violence,” Knox clarified. “The way you live. The things you do.”
“No. It doesn’t bother me,” he said in an unnervingly calm tone.
“That’s crazy.”
“Is it?”
“Yes,” Knox said immediately. “Normal people don’t—”
Dominic’s mouth twitched. “Don’t what?”
Knox gestured again, bigger this time. “They don’t willingly walk into situations that end up with others bleeding all over the damn place.”
Dominic didn’t flinch. Something almost thoughtful crossed his expression. “I do.”
Knox went still.
“I love it,” he continued, without apology. “The control, the risk, the moment when things tip from calm to chaos and you have to decide what happens next.”
“You’re serious?”
Dominic looked almost amused by the question. “Completely.”
Knox shook his head, trying to process that. “You don’t ever want something normal?”
“Define normal.”
“I don’t know,” Knox said, exasperated. “A quiet life. A job where people aren’t trying to kill you. A house that doesn’t require a private holding cell in the basement.”
Dominic laughed. “No. That sounds incredibly boring.”
Knox stared at him like he’d grown another head. He pushed away from the counter and paced a few steps across the kitchen before turning back. “How did you become like this?”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said, “but there’s no tragic origin story. No movie-villain childhood. I grew up in a very normal house. Family dinners. Birthdays. Holidays. Nothing traumatic.”
“Then how?” Knox asked. “How does someone build all this? How does that happen?”
Dominic was quiet for a moment. “There’s no explanation that’s going to satisfy you,” he said at last. “I started with legal businesses. Ran them well. Made good money. And I was bored out of my fucking mind.” He held Knox’s gaze, utterly unapologetic.
“Then something more dangerous came along, and I took it. Because I needed the rush. That’s all it was, at first.”
Knox didn’t move.
“And then you’re in a world you never planned to be a part of,” Dominic went on.
“Only it feels more like home than the one you came from. You cross one line, and nothing happens. So you cross another. Then another.” His voice remained calm, almost detached.
“You keep waiting to feel it. The guilt. The remorse. Whatever you’re supposed to feel when you do the things I do. ”
“And you don’t?” Knox asked.
“No. I don’t. At some point you stop waiting for it and start wondering maybe this is just where you were always meant to end up.”
That only made Knox stare harder. “That doesn’t explain anything. That’s not how men like you are made. There’s supposed to be a reason. Something happens. Something breaks.”
Dominic shrugged. “I guess this is just who I am.” His gaze pierced through him. “Aren’t you the same?”
Knox opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Dominic’s eyes dropped to Knox’s hands, the faint stain of dried blood still clinging there. “You weren’t afraid tonight,” he said. “So tell me, Wolfe. Did any of it really bother you… or did you enjoy the rush as much as I did?”
Knox didn’t answer. The truth was sitting in his chest like a loaded gun.
When nothing came, Dominic’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.” He pushed off the stool and headed toward the bathroom, like the conversation had reached its natural end. “I’m taking a shower,” he said over his shoulder. “The couch is still free.”
Knox stayed exactly where he was.
Aren’t you the same?
The question kept circling. He looked down at his hands. The blood had turned dark against his skin. He crossed to the sink and turned on the water, scrubbing harder than necessary, watching the water run pink before disappearing down the drain.
He shut off the faucet and dried his hands slowly. He should leave. That was the obvious choice, the sensible one. Go home, sleep in his own bed, and put as much distance between himself and Dominic as possible.
Behind the bathroom door, the shower started running.
He stood there in the quiet kitchen and didn’t move.
Aren’t you the same?
He reached over and turned off the kitchen light.
The couch would do.