Chapter 10 #2
I spin toward the noise, and my eyes land on Dominic.
His whole body jerks on the mattress as if something’s inside him, ripping its way out. His face is a mask of torment, twisted and pained.
I reach out, fingers trembling, and touch his shoulder gently. My soul knots.
His chest heaves in short, desperate bursts. He turns his head away, but he doesn't wake. A silent scream splits his mouth open, muscles coiling in his stomach like his insides are being torn apart.
No. No, no.
I shake his shoulder. Just once, but his eyes stay clenched shut, chest stuttering, ribs rising and falling in frantic waves. His back arches.
He stops breathing.
“Dominic,” I call for him in a panic, my fear sharpening into something primal.
But he still doesn’t wake, so I dig my nails into his shoulder and yell this time, voice cracking.
“Dominic, wake up!”
His eyes snap open, and he finally gasps, like he’s surfacing from the bottom of the ocean. One breath. Then another. Then another. He’s soaked in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes darting from side to side, wild and unfocused.
He bolts upright, and sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head hanging. Breathing like he just ran through hell.
“Dominic…” I whisper.
No response. Just the rise and fall of his shoulders, harsh and uneven.
My chest aches so much, I could scream. Why now? Why did he have a nightmare now? He never had one before.
I raise my hand slowly, as if I’m approaching a wounded animal, and touch his back gently with just a brush of my fingers — right over a scar that spans more than a third of his back.
He freezes under my touch. I wait, heartbeat in my throat, until his whisper breaks the silence a few seconds later.
“Come closer, Adora.”
I move to him, wrapping my arms around his chest from behind. My legs fold around his hips, bracketing his body, trying to protect him from whatever hunted him in his sleep.
I press my cheek to his back, feeling the rising scars underneath the tattoos.
I remember when he used to have only one — his club brand.
He didn’t really want any more back then, but now his entire body is inked.
And there’s one in particular, a vicious snake on his ribs, that I’m too afraid to ask him about. I am sure it’s supposed to be me.
I want to cry but I’m holding the tears back as much as I can. Somehow, even after everything, he doesn’t like to see me cry, and I don’t want to upset him any more right now.
He takes my hand, pulls it to the center of his chest, and holds it there, like a shield. His other hand wraps around my thigh. We stay connected in silence, time slipping away from us as minute after minute melts into the darkness.
His breathing starts to slow, and finally, he speaks. Voice hoarse. Quiet.
“It was just a nightmare.”
Just.
“I… I have a problem with small spaces. That’s why I had the big house in Driftwood.”
There’s something jagged in the way he says it, like he’s still fighting the nightmare.
“I’m okay now,” he adds. “Let’s get back to sleep.”
I squeeze him gently before slipping back to my side of the bed. My soul is bleeding. This is all my fault. If he hadn’t met me, if I didn’t exist, he would be ok. He wouldn’t be broken and in pain.
He lies down and pulls me into him, his arms circling me tight, like he’s trying to keep me from vanishing.
“Don’t pull away from me in your sleep,” he whispers into my hair.
“Okay,” I breathe.
But neither of us falls back asleep. Not for the rest of the night.
We weren’t supposed to leave the motel for another few days, but… he cut it short. My chest hurts thinking about his nightmare. I did that. I did that to him. I know it, but I’m too afraid to ask the questions plaguing my mind — not afraid of what he’d do, but of the answers he might give me.
We enter the cabin he bought and I turn slowly, taking everything in. It’s… nice. Really nice, actually.
Open concept ground floor, wide and uncluttered.
A sunken couch anchors the living room, and a massive TV hangs on the wall across from it.
Kitchen’s to the left. Bathroom somewhere to the right.
A sleek little office setup straight in the back, where all his brooding and illegal activities will probably take place.
The upstairs bedrooms are offset, hovering over the back of the house instead of directly overhead. A balcony-style hallway overlooks the main space. You could watch everything from up there. Hear everything.
It’s clean. Modern.
And empty.
No art. No shelves. No color. Aside from the couch and the screen, the place feels as vacant as the emptiness of space.
I turn to Dominic. Just as I expected, he’s already watching me, studying my reaction with narrowed eyes, one brow arched in silent question.
“It’s beautiful,” I say honestly. “But it’s empty. Are your things coming from Driftwood?”
“Just the kitchen and office stuff.” He glances around carelessly. “There’s a bed upstairs. A couch down here. TV. What more do we need?”
I blink at him. “You have a shit ton of history books. I’m guessing those are coming from Driftwood, too. Who bought stuff for your house there?”
“Mama,” he says simply.
Ah. Of course.
“So… is Mama furnishing this one too?” I ask, one hand settling on my hip.
His eyes narrow. “If she finds out you’re here, she’ll come down and kick both our asses.”
I grin, triumphant. “Then you definitely need my interior designing expertise.”
He snorts, full of condescension. “You have none of that.”
“Excuse you,” I fire back. “I can open an IKEA catalog and recreate one of their already-made setups with two clicks and a vision.”
He smiles that small smile that's uniquely his. “Okay, adorable. It’s a deal. Order what you want.”
I light up, clapping my hands with glee. He just handed me the keys to a kingdom made of Swedish furniture and unnecessary throw pillows. Online shopping, here I come!
I’m caught off guard when his arm loops around my neck, dragging me close.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s eat.”
I stumble beside him into the kitchen, grinning up at his stupid handsome face.
“Do we even have food?”
“Bought groceries this morning, when I picked up the keys.” He opens the fridge, glancing at me over the door. “What do you want?”
I tap a finger to my chin, thinking. He’s a ridiculously good cook. My mouth is already watering in anticipation.
“Something fast and with bacon,” I declare.
He considers for a second. “BLTs it is.”
I’m halfway through my BLT, moaning in ecstasy, eyes rolled back, soul ascending.
This sandwich is divine. Perfect ratio of crunch, salt, and bacon-fat glory. The bread is toasted just right, and whatever sauce he slathered on this thing has to be illegal.
He gave me heaven on a plate. With lettuce.
I glance up mid-bite, and freeze. Dominic’s not eating. Not even touching his own sandwich. He’s just staring at me, frowning like I’ve committed high treason.
“What?” I mumble, mouth full of deliciousness.
“You don’t make those sounds when we fuck,” he says, deadpan, his gaze holding nothing but accusation.
My eyes widen. I point at the sandwich like it’s Exhibit A in my defense.
“This is better than sex.”
He inhales sharply, offended. “Take that back.”
I chew. Swallow. Then shake my head fast. “Nope. I’m just speaking facts.”
He stands, nostrils flaring, like he’s about to teach me a lesson I’ll never forget. A thrill shoots through me. I definitely want to learn that lesson.
“Put. Down. The sandwich, Adora,” he growls.
His tone is pure warning but I ignore it. All I do is grin and take two more massive bites.
He’s across the kitchen before I can even blink. Next thing I know, I’m airborne. Dangling over his shoulder, sandwich still clutched in one hand, laughter spilling from my lips as his palm smacks my ass in retribution.
I regret nothing.
“Okay…” I whisper hours later, voice dreamy and wrecked, barely a breath against his skin. “Sex with you is better than bacon.”
There. I said it. Lesson learned, I guess.
I feel him smirk in victory before he speaks. “Knew it.”
He’s so cocky. Infuriating. I should bite him, but I’m too spent. Too blissed out to care. My body’s jelly and my heart’s stupid. We’re wrapped around each other, skin against skin, the world outside this room forgotten.
I don’t know what the hell we’re doing, playing house like this. I still have two months left with him. Two months of stolen kisses, laughter and fights that end in orgasms, and all I can think is — I never want the end to come.
Ghost
“She wants to do WHAT to us, now?!” Joker barks, eyes bugging out like he just heard he’s getting neutered.
I exhale slow, annoyed with this entire meeting. I’ve already said this twice.
“Spank us,” I repeat flatly. “In front of the women associated with the club.”
I shrug one shoulder, barely a motion. “Optional audience. For those who want to watch.”
My voice drops lower. “Just like we watched her. That night.”
Silence creeps in, thick and heavy. Elyna — no, fuck, it’s Temperance now — demanded the right to spank all of us in revenge for what we did to her. She doesn’t just want to draw blood. She wants to humiliate us, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t understand her..
Fang turns to Bones, jaw tight. “I’d like the record to reflect that I blame you, Prez. Fully. My ass will never forget this.” He groans. “I’ll take the hit, but I’m not happy about it.”
Bones doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t twitch. Just sits there like a statue carved out of granite, arms crossed, some of the wounds Temperance gave him still seeping blood through the gauze.
“If you don’t understand why she blames the entire club, too, and not just me…” His voice is calm. Icy. “Then you should sit this one out.”
Fang lets out a long breath, and drops his head. “I understand,” he mutters, voice small. “Of course I understand.”
Then Mindfuck pipes up, because of course he does. He can’t help himself.