Carter #2
“I’m sure you have,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he mirrored my pull, dragging the box back to center. “But I don’t like the odds of you making it down this hall without a disaster. I’ll supervise the transit.”
“Supervise? You mean do the job for me?”
“I mean I’m not letting you out of my sight until this is off the floor.” He didn't let go. If anything, his grip tightened.
I leaned back, put my weight into it, and gave a heave that should have sent him stumbling.
He didn't even vibrate. He just stared at me, his expression as frigid as a winter morning while we both stood there, red-faced and rigid with stubbornness, essentially playing a game of warehouse merchandise chicken.
“Fine,” I snapped, my voice tight with the effort of not letting my end of the box dip. “Carry the dead weight then. Seems to be your specialty.”
We started walking, and our "waltz" was more like a jerky, two-person wrecking ball.
If he sped up, I slowed down, dragging my heels until the cardboard groaned under the strain.
If I tried to pivot, he braced his weight, his fingers occasionally brushing mine—a brief, electric contact that felt like a spark jumping a gap.
He didn't flinch. I just tightened my grip until my knuckles looked carved from chalk.
It was a choreographed struggle for ground.
We were two predators sharing a single path, both of us trying to lead the dance and neither willing to cede an inch.
I took a wider step, trying to force him toward the wall.
He countered by subtly leaning his shoulder into mine, steering us back toward the center of the hall.
“You look at me like I’m the enemy,” he said, his eyes fixed forward while his mouth worked with the sheer effort of keeping the box level despite my best efforts to tip it.
“You’re a Formula One driver,” I countered.
“Same thing,” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that wasn't quite a smile.
We reached the end of the hall, and I was preparing one last heave to claim the box for myself when the heavy thud of footsteps echoed from the main corridor.
"Is that him? Did he go this way?" A girl's voice, breathless and way too close.
Dominic’s entire posture shifted in a millisecond—the irritation vanished, replaced by a sharp, tactical alarm. Before I could process the change, he yanked the box forward, nearly taking my arms with it, and used his shoulder to shove the closet door open.
"Get in," he hissed.
"Excuse me? I'm not—"
He didn't wait for the rest of my protest. He stepped into the darkness, dragging the box—and me with it—into the cramped space. He kicked the door shut just as a pair of students rounded the corner, their muffled voices wondering where "the Valerio hottie" had vanished to.
The closet smelled like lemon-scented floor wax and decades of dust. We set the box down with a synchronized, angry thud that probably shook the shelves.
I reached up, my hand trembling slightly from the adrenaline, and yanked the string. The hanging bulb hummed to life, yellow and dim. Dominic was crowding the doorway, his hand braced against the frame. He looked like he was personally offended by the lack of square footage.
“You can leave now,” I said lowly, though it came out sharper than I intended. “Supervision complete. Go be a celebrity somewhere else.”
“I’m not going back out there while they’re hunting for a photo-op,” he muttered. He reached beside him, his fingers brushing the wall as he found the string. He pulled.
The room vanished into black in one clean gulp.
“Wow,” I said into the black. “You really are allergic to charity.”
“I’m not allergic to charity,” his voice came through the dark, closer than before, low and surprisingly sharp. “I’m allergic to tax-write-offs disguised as galas. There’s a difference between helping people and posing for a check that barely covers the cost of the catering.”
My hand found the string. I yanked. The bulb flickered back on—shaky, persistent. Dominic’s face was inches from mine, every angle of him thrown into contrast.
There it was again. That same unwelcome flare catching behind my ribs, only this time it wasn't just a flicker.
It was a steady, rhythmic throb that made the air in the tiny room feel heavy and far too still.
I couldn't look away, and I couldn't ignore the way my pulse had suddenly decided to sync up with the silence between us.
“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” he murmured, his eyes tracking the movement of my hand.
“Funny. I was thinking the same.”
He reached past me—deliberately close—and tugged the string again.
Dark.
I heard the shape of a smirk in the black. “Better.”
I stepped forward until my chest brushed his, refusing to let him dictate the terms of our confinement. If he wanted to hide in the dark, I was going to make him feel exactly how small this room was. My fingertips slid up the cord, slow and pointed. I pulled.
Light.
His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a breath too long, his pupils doing that traitorous flare again before he pulled at the string.
Dark.
I didn't let him recover. I reached up and yanked it again.
Light.
“You should be careful,” he said, his voice a low vibration that I felt in my own chest. “You keep turning the lights on and you’re going to think you see something that isn’t there.”
Dark.
The pitch-black was thick, pressing us together. I didn't answer right away. The erratic pulse in my chest was louder now, a frantic feedback loop that made my skin feel too tight.
Instead, I leaned in, guided by the pull of him, until my breath feathered against the column of his throat. “I see plenty, Dominic. Mostly a guy who hates losing, but hates wanting even more.”
I pulled.
The bulb didn't just flicker; it exploded into the small space, harsh and yellow. The smirk was already on my face, ready to catch his reaction, but it died before I could even draw a breath.
We were too close. My chest was a hair’s breadth from his. I could see the gold flecks in his eyes and the way his pulse thundered in the base of his throat. My internal sensors were screaming a warning I didn't know how to shut off.
Neither of us moved. The air in the closet didn't just feel thin; it felt like it was ionizing, charging the space between us until it burned.
Then, Dominic’s face went flat. The moment cracked apart, replaced by a precisely controlled expression that made me feel like a smudge on a lens he was about to wipe away. He didn't back up. He leaned in further, his body hemming me in against the door.
“You’re right,” he said, his voice level and stripped of everything but ice. “I do hate losing. Which is why I’m ending this before you get it into your head that you’re actually a player.”
He reached into his pocket, his movements sharp. He didn't offer the money; he held it out like he was disposing of evidence. A thick, folded stack of hundreds.
“It’s the winnings,” he said. The words were a slap. “From the race the other night. Take it.”
I looked at the cash, then back at his face. For a heartbeat, the air in my lungs was still warm, the dizzying scent of him still clouding my judgment. I blinked, my mind trying to reconcile the guy whose pulse I’d just felt against my own with him now holding a bribe like a weapon.
The charged air between us didn’t fade; it died.
I felt the shift in my own expression—the way my features flattened, the softness around my mouth tightening into a thin, familiar line of defense. This was the Dominic Valerio I knew. This was the man who didn't see people, only liabilities and price tags.
The confusion didn't just vanish; it was buried under a landslide of absolute certainty.
“The winnings?” I asked. My voice was steady now, the frantic rhythm of a moment ago replaced by a low, dangerous hum. “You mean the race you barely won because you nearly killed us both trying to outrun me?”
“Take it,” he snapped.
“No.”
“Take it,” he repeated. He stepped into my space, the folded bills crushed between the center of my chest and the flat of his palm, pinning me against the door.
“I want you to stay away from Luka. If you need a payout to make you disappear, here it is. Take the money and find a different family to haunt.”
I stilled, the edges of the bills digging into my skin through my shirt. “So that’s what this is? A payout to keep the trash away from your brother?”
“My brother doesn’t understand what using someone looks like,” he said, his gaze dropping to the money he was pressing against me. “You do. You know exactly what your time is worth.”
I shoved his hand back, the cash fluttering between us before I slammed it against his own chest. He didn't even flinch.
“And here I thought you’d hit your limit when you suggested I was sleeping with your father,” I said, my voice shaking with a rage that was finally starting to boil over. “Turns out you were just warming up.”
His nostrils flared. His voice dipped, razor-clean and devoid of any warmth. “If you insist on trading your company for proximity to power, at least pick a person who isn’t older than the engines he’s paid for his son to drive.”
A humorless smile curved my mouth. “Ah. There it is. Pity with a side of savior complex.”
“It isn't pity.”
“What is it then?”
He leaned in, his breath skimmed my cheek. “Insurance. If you’re going to latch onto someone in my family, latch onto me. At least I know what the invoice is for.”
The air in my lungs felt like it had turned to lead. “Right. Because in your world, women only ‘latch on’ for a fee. Is that why you’re offering to pay me? To put me on a retainer?”
His lips parted, a single second of exposure where his eyes searched mine, before the steel slammed back into place.
“If you have needs,” he murmured, his face inches from mine, “you come to me. Not my brother. Not my father. I’m the one who’ll afford you.”