Carter #2
"You honestly think I’m just trying to win you?"
"Aren’t you?" I ask, my voice dropping to a low whisper. "Isn’t that what the Valerios do? You take what you want, you prove you can have it, and then you lose interest the second it stops fighting back. You don’t want me. You just want to see if you can break my stride."
The words feel like a shield, but they’re starting to feel thin.
Even as I throw them at him, I’m wondering why I haven’t moved.
Why I’m still standing in this room with a guy I supposedly can’t stand.
I keep telling myself he’s the danger, but I’m the one who keeps choosing this.
Choosing him. I’m just as much a part of this mess as he is, and we both know it.
Dominic goes dead quiet. The only sound in the space is the hum of the refrigerator and our ragged breathing. He looks at me for a long beat—really looks at me—and I see a flash of something in his eyes that looks suspiciously like pain before he masks it with a scowl.
"You really don't get it," he says, his voice a shallow, rough vibration. "You’re so busy looking for a motive that you’re missing what’s right in front of you. You think I’m playing a game?
I’m the one losing. I’m the one who can't think straight. I’m the one who’s losing his mind because I don't know how to act around you. "
He takes a step closer, his frame eclipsing mine.
"I wake up and you’re the first thought I have to fight off.
I go to the track and I’m looking for you in the garage when I should be looking at the apex.
I’m sitting in that car, trying to be the person I’ve always been, but all I can think about is what you’re doing when you’re not around, or the way you won't back down when I’m being an asshole for absolutely no reason.
It’s not a game. It’s a goddamn haunting, Carter.
I can’t turn it off. I can’t outrun it. And I sure as hell don’t know how to move on to ‘the next’ when I can’t even get through a single day without needing to see you. "
"I don't believe you," I breathe, though my pulse is thudding with a rhythm I can't ignore.
Dominic’s gaze lingers on my mouth, every line of him going rigid as the last of his restraint finally snaps.
"Fine," he rasps, stepping into the final inch of my space until he is all I can feel. "Call my bluff. Tell me you don't want this as much as I do, and I'll walk out. Otherwise, shut up and let me prove it."
I don't tell him to leave. I can't. The lie is stuck in my throat, choked out by the sheer, magnetic weight of him standing there.
He doesn't wait for a rebuttal. He just leans in and settles the argument the only way he has left—by shutting me up. It isn’t a soft landing. It’s a collision. His mouth slams into mine with a blunt, desperate force, fueled by the same warped adrenaline that was just powering our shouting match.
I’m not surrendering; I’m fighting back.
My hands tangle in the damp hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer because the anger and the wanting have become the exact same thing.
We stagger across the kitchen, a clumsy, frantic mess of limbs.
My back hits the refrigerator with a dull thud, but he doesn't stop.
He hooks his hands under my thighs and hoists me up in one fluid, powerful motion, seating me on the edge of the counter.
I wrap my legs around his waist instantly, anchoring him to me as his hands slide up my back, his touch searing me everywhere.
There’s no more room for logic, only the surge that is him and the guttural sound he makes against my mouth.
He’s all sharp angles and heavy muscle, and for the first time since I met him, the noise in my head has gone completely silent.
I break away just enough to catch an unsteady breath, my forehead resting against his. "I still... hate you," I gasp, my lungs burning.
I wait for the argument, for the denial. It doesn't come. He doesn’t try to change my mind or defend himself. He just leans into the friction.
"Good," he growls, his eyes blown wide and unfocused as he stares at my swollen lips. "Stay angry. It’s the only time you’re honest."
He doesn’t move. Instead, he shifts, his hand coming up to tangle in the hair at the nape of my neck, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip with a tenderness that feels far more dangerous than his anger.
We stay like that for a long heartbeat, perched on the counter, both of us breathing each other’s air, both of us looking entirely wrecked.
"What's wrong with us?" I noted quietly. The question isn't a challenge; it’s a plea. I’m looking for the logic, the missing variable that explains why I can’t stop reaching for the very thing that’s going to ruin me.
Dominic doesn't answer. He just looks at me with an expression that is terrifyingly open—a mix of confusion and a hunger so deep it looks like pain. He doesn't have the answer because he’s caught in the same current.
"You've seen my room, Shortcut," he murmurs, his voice quiet and rough, the sound settling somewhere I don’t want it to. "Want to show me yours?"
The insinuation is heavy, vibrating in the small space between us.
I should say no. I should bring up every warning I’ve ever heard about F1 drivers, or the way he treats his life like a series of exit ramps.
I should remember that I agreed to come here to escape the wreckage, not become part of it.
But as his hand slides from my neck to my waist, pulling me a fraction closer, the line I drew earlier blurs beyond recognition.
I don’t think. I just nod.
He hoists me off the counter, his mouth dropping to the sensitive skin of my neck as my legs lock around his waist again.
I’m a mess of contradictions—frustrated, confused, and so profoundly turned on it’s making my head spin.
My hands climb his chest, gripping his shoulders, my fingers burying themselves into his skin as he carries me toward my room.
We don’t make it to the bed.
The moment we stumble into my bedroom, the air turns electric again.
He’s back on me, urgent and demanding, his touch everywhere at once.
We collide with the small vanity in the corner, the furniture groaning under our weight as I pull him into me.
In the blur of it, as I try to find my footing and pull him closer, I shove back.
My foot catches the heavy, floor-length mirror leaning against the far wall.
It tips with agonizing slowness before crashing.
The glass doesn't just shatter; the heavy wooden frame punches straight through the drywall with a sickening crunch. I freeze, the adrenaline flatlining into instant shock. Dominic pulls back, his chest heaving, his eyes darting from me to the gaping hole in the drywall.
I look down, expecting to see insulation or the wooden studs of the frame. Instead, the dead space behind the wall is filled with a riot of color.
Canvases are stacked deep in the darkness—dusty, forgotten paintings of landscapes and abstract shapes, hidden away like a secret that was never meant to be found.
The room, which had felt electric seconds ago, suddenly feels different.
"What are those?" I wonder aloud, as I look from the wall to him. I’m still breathless, my skin still flushed, but whatever just had me leaning into him is gone. "Why are these in here?"
Dominic doesn't look surprised. He just looks exhausted, the fire in his eyes dying out into a hollow, haunting sort of clarity. He looks at the canvases, then back at me, his hand dropping from my waist as if the touch is suddenly too heavy to maintain.
"You asked me to explain what’s wrong with me," he says, his voice quiet in a way that feels wrong on him. "Why my hands go numb. Why I spend so much time in the water or the sauna."
He gestures toward the broken wall, toward the vibrant, trapped life hidden behind the plaster.
"It’s not just to train. I’m trying to stay loose. I'm trying to keep the clock from stopping." He pauses, his gaze dropping back to the paintings as his breath hitches. "You wanted the truth? I'd prefer to show you."