Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dominic
Grace was covered in blood.
Some of it wasn’t hers—I could see the smudges that didn’t match the cut along her arm, the streaks staining her jacket from whoever she had fought—but enough of it was.
Enough that my stomach twisted in a way it never had before.
Enough that I felt something inside me snap as I caught her before she could hit the floor.
She barely reacted to my arms wrapping around her, her body too limp, too cold, her breath uneven against my neck. The second I had the weight of her in my arms, something dark and furious coiled in my chest, spreading through my veins like a slow, deadly burn.
I carried her straight to the couch, lowering her carefully, my fingers pressing against her too-pale cheek. The others were saying something—I didn’t care.
Blood was seeping through the torn fabric of her sleeve, and when I reached for it, she flinched.
That nearly sent me over the edge.
"Who the hell did this to you?" My voice came out sharp, deadly quiet.
Grace’s eyelashes fluttered, her lips parting slightly, but she barely had the strength to keep her eyes open. "Doesn’t matter."
Wrong answer.
I turned my head sharply, my gaze locking onto the others. "First aid kit. Now."
Ezra moved instantly, disappearing down the hall. Riley and Jaden stood frozen, eyes flicking between me and Grace, the tension in the room thick enough to suffocate. Theo was already making calls, his face unreadable.
I didn’t care what any of them were thinking right now.
All I cared about was the fact that Grace’s pulse was too fast beneath my fingertips, her skin too cold, her breath too shallow.
Ezra came back, tossing me the first aid kit. I caught it one-handed, flipping it open with a precision that should’ve calmed me but didn’t. I had done this before—patching up cuts, dealing with bruises, the inevitable injuries that came with the life we led.
But this was different.
Because this was her.
I grabbed the antiseptic, poured it onto a clean cloth, and pressed it against the wound on her arm.
She flinched again.
"Stay still," I ordered, my voice rougher than I intended.
Grace exhaled sharply through her nose but didn’t argue. That was the only reason I didn’t snap at her.
I worked in silence, too aware of the way her skin felt under my hands, of the way she tried not to react but did anyway. Every quiet inhale, every barely-there tremor as I cleaned the wound—I noticed it all.
And then she said something that nearly made me lose it completely.
"I’ve had worse."
My hand stilled.
I didn’t react, didn’t move, didn’t let my expression change. But something inside me fractured, the sharp edge of her words slicing through me like a blade.
Then I kept going.
Not because I didn’t hear her.
Because I did.
Because that sentence—the casual way she said it—was the single most infuriating thing I had ever heard come out of her mouth.
My grip on the cloth tightened.
"That’s not the damn point, Grace."
Her gaze flickered to me, dark and unreadable.
"Then what is?"
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t have the words for it.
For this feeling.
For the way my chest still hadn’t loosened, for the way my hands weren’t as steady as they should have been, for the way my pulse was still hammering—not from anger, but from something worse. The realization of just how close this had been.
I wrapped the bandage too tightly.
She hissed, jerking slightly. "Dominic."
I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to loosen it, my jaw still locked so tight it ached.
Her voice was quieter when she spoke again. "You don’t have to?—"
"You could’ve died," I murmured.
The words felt like glass in my throat.
Grace stilled.
I kept working, kept my hands moving, because if I looked at her, if I met her eyes right now, I wasn’t sure what the hell I’d do.
"But I didn’t," she breathed.
I did look at her then.
And it was a mistake.
Because she was too close, and the bandages felt too intimate, and the dim lighting in the penthouse made her skin glow just enough that I couldn’t ignore the way my fingers lingered longer than they should have.
The tension shifted.
Something else entered the space between us.
Her breathing was different now, her lips slightly parted, her body still too tense under my touch.
And me?
I was losing control.
Because all I could think about was how close she had come to not making it back to me.
My fingers brushed against her wrist, barely a touch, but it sent a slow, dangerous heat spiraling through me.
She noticed.
I saw it in the way her chest rose just slightly, in the way her lashes flickered, in the way she was looking at me now—not like I was her boss, not like I was her job, but like she saw exactly what was happening between us and wasn’t stopping it.
I wasn’t sure who moved first.
All I knew was that suddenly, my hand was on the side of her face, my thumb brushing along her cheekbone, and she didn’t pull away.
She should have.
I should have.
But neither of us did.
The air between us felt too heavy, too thick, too charged, like something was going to snap if one of us didn’t break it first.
Her lips parted slightly, like she was about to say something.
I never found out what.
Because if I didn’t move now, if I didn’t put space between us, I was going to do something I couldn’t take back.