Dominic #2
Something inside me tightened, slow and suffocating.
I had invited Landon here to make him look like an amateur under the warm spotlight of my father’s expectations. Not to watch my brother play escort to the one person who had successfully cut through my composure.
My mouth set. I turned away, ignoring the raw twist in my chest, and scanned the room for the nearest distraction...
Sienna was in a corner, wrapped in glittering fabric and eyes that were far too eager. Perfect. Predictable. She was a known variable, and right now, I needed something I could control.
I headed toward her, each step fueled by a sharp-edged irritation. If Carter wanted to play at being my brother’s shadow, fine. Let her.
My father wanted a show? He wanted optics? I’d give him a masterpiece.
I needed my mind off the way Carter’s hair caught the light and back on what would help me ultimately. Using Sienna wasn't just a distraction; it was a tactical necessity. She was the perfect alibi—vocal, visible, and easily steered.
I forced my shoulders back, the tension in my spine smoothing out into a practiced, glacial confidence. It was the kind of expression Sienna never questioned—the kind that made her feel like she was the center of the world, even when she was just a piece in the game.
“Dominic,” she breathed, already leaning in.
I let my gaze sweep over her—slow enough to make her spine straighten, quick enough to be an insult. “Meet me in fifteen,” I said, my voice low. “Upstairs. East wing. First door on the right.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“Fourteen now,” I corrected.
She didn’t argue. She laughed—that breathless, fluttering sound that usually made me feel powerful but tonight just felt like static.
She reached out, her fingers grazing my arm with a desperate sort of softness.
I didn't flinch, but I didn't lean in. I just watched her until she scurried off, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the floor, her posture radiating the empty triumph of someone who thought she’d won.
I didn't watch her go. I had work to do.
I moved through the crowd, my expression of bored wealth. I intercepted the event coordinator near the awards display. She was already frazzled, clutching a clipboard like a shield.
“My father wanted these moved to the main stage,” I said, my voice smooth, dropping the lie like a slow-acting poison. “He’s running behind and he’ll lose his mind if the recognition order isn't perfect for the photographers.”
Her eyes widened in a flash of panic. “He didn't mention—”
“He’s busy,” I cut in, a sharp edge to my tone. “Make sure Landon helps oversee the move. My father mentioned something about ‘symbolism’ and ‘team unity.’ You know how he gets.”
She nodded briskly, already waving over assistants to drag Landon into the task. I watched from the periphery as Landon—dutiful, oblivious, and far too trusting—followed them toward the stage. Part one, finished.
I circled the back corridor, catching the eye of the tall student staffer who’d been hovering near Carter and Luka earlier. He looked helpful. He looked like an easy lever to pull.
“Hey,” I murmured, leaning in just enough to make it feel like a shared secret. “Carter Hayes said she is looking for some boxes upstairs, but she looked a bit turned around. Mind pointing her toward the East wing?”
He beamed, eager to be useful, and headed straight for her. I didn't stay to watch the conversation. I knew Carter. She was stubborn, responsible, and loathed the idea of appearing incompetent. She’d go.
I took the staircase, climbing toward the dim, silent hallways of the upper floor.
The trap was set. Carter would go hunting for boxes that didn’t exist, and the search would lead her straight to the door I was about to walk through.
The old building creaked. The air up here was thin and smelled of dust and old paper. I reached the first door on the right just as it clicked open. Sienna was already inside, her face flushed, her breath coming in short, shaky hitches.
She shut the door, the click of it closing echoing in the small room. “Dominic,” she murmured, her hands shifting as they reached for my clothes.
I didn’t kiss her. I didn’t want the sweetness, and I certainly didn't want the intimacy. I wanted the friction. I pressed her against the wall, the impact drawing a sharp gasp from her lungs as I shoved her dress up past her hips.
I guided her into place with a rough, mechanical precision, taking her with a sudden, jarring force that left no room for gentleness.
I let her think this was passion. I let her think her eagerness was the reason I was pinning her there, buried deep inside her while I stared at the door, but it was just physics—a vacant way to burn off the rage she hadn't caused.
But my mind wasn’t in this room. It was a riot of images that had been stacking up since the moment she arrived.
I thought of her at the pool, the way I’d watched her over Sienna’s shoulder even as I pressed my mouth to someone else’s. I thought of the sharp, silent insult of her middle finger in her car and the roar of the engines during the dune race when she’d almost—almost—taken what was mine.
Every moan Sienna let out was just background noise to the memory of Carter’s silent judgment at the track today. She’d invaded my refuge, stood there with that observant tilt of her head, and dismissed my entire career with a single look at a stopwatch.
I took my frustration out on Sienna, my grip on her hips bruising, my pace unrelenting and automatic.
I wasn't here. I was back in the tight, suffocating confines of that closet, feeling the friction of someone who actually had the nerve to fight back.
I was trying to bleed the thought of her out of my system, using the girl in front of me to erase the one who was currently ruining my life.
I didn't want Carter. I wanted the control she’d stolen from me.
Then, footsteps.
Hesitant. Right on time.
I almost smiled against Sienna’s neck.
The door creaked open. A sliver of light cut through the dark, hitting the floor.
Carter stood there.
The air in the room died, turning thick and stagnant. Sienna whimpered my name, her head tipped back and eyes squeezed shut, lost in a fantasy that was seconds away from shattering. But I was looking past her.
I expected Carter to scream. I expected her to gasp, to turn on her heel and bolt down the hallway in a fit of pure, virginal horror. That was the script. That was part of this trap.
But Carter didn’t run.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the door, her knuckles turning a stark, bone-white against the dark wood.
She didn't flinch. Instead, she watched.
I saw the surprise flicker in her eyes, followed by a surge of raw, blistering anger, but she held her ground.
Her chest rose and fell in a quick, shallow rhythm, and then I saw it—the deep, undeniable bloom of red creeping up her neck and staining her cheeks.
It wasn't just embarrassment. It was want.