Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
DOM
She falls asleep against my chest, her breathing evening out, her body going soft and heavy in my arms. The lights cast small shadows across her face, making her look almost innocent.
Almost.
But I know better now. I shift slightly, careful not to wake her, and just watch. Watch the rise and fall of her chest. The way her hair spills across my skin, the faint marks I left on her throat, hickeys that will darken by morning, visible proof that she's mine.
My knuckles are still split open, the antiseptic she used stinging faintly. I can still feel the impact of bone against bone, the satisfying crunch of cartilage breaking under my fist. The way that drunk fuck's head snapped back with each punch.
I’m so happy she enjoyed the show. She’s nothing like the usual fucking moral police. Roxy didn't look at it in a moral way, it was about consequences, that someone fought for her. It turns me the fuck on with how she watched.
The memory makes something dark and possessive build in my chest. I replay it in my mind from the moment I looked up from the bleeding man on the floor and met her eyes across the table. The expression on her face wasn't panic or shock. It was arousal. Pure, undeniable arousal.
She saw me break a man's face and it turned her on. What kind of person does that make her? I guess you could say the same kind of person as me.
I let the feeling of satisfaction and pride cover me like a weighted blanket.
I've spent years moving through the world alone, surrounded by people who pretended to be civilized while hiding their true nature behind fake smiles and polite conversation.
People who ran and hid from violence, who looked away from death like they could avoid it, and spent their whole lives pretending the world was something other than what it really is.
Brutal.
But Roxy doesn't do that, because she sees it all as clearly as I do. She draws dead things on the side of the road. She watches people when they think nobody is assessing them and she artistically creates the truth written on their faces. She doesn’t shy away from the sadness.
Just like me, she really sees me and still doesn’t turn away.
My hand moves to her hair, my fingers thread through the dark silky strands and she doesn't stir. Just keeps breathing, deep and steady, trusting me completely even in sleep. I know she feels safe because her monster is watching over her.
I suppose if I really cared, I would shield her from me, not let her be part of what I am and what I’m capable of.
But I’m selfish. I want to share it with her and enjoy it.
She doesn't need protecting from the evil in the world.
She is the darkness, and we can bathe in it together.
What she needs is someone who understands her, who won't try to fix her or change her or make her into something safe and acceptable.
Someone who will let her be exactly what she is.
My mind drifts back to the bar again, and the enjoyment I got out of it. And I'd do it again without hesitation if it meant keeping her safe.
Roxy is only going to make me worse than before.
More protective, showing less mercy in order to keep her safe and free to enjoy what she loves.
Maybe I'm crazy for not leaving her here in the middle of the night, and protecting her from the biggest bad guy around her, which is me. I will ruin her life, but it’s something we will both enjoy.
Because this is what I've been searching for without being aware I was looking. Not redemption or salvation. Not some path back to normalcy.
This. Her. Us.
Roxy shifts in her sleep, her arm tightens around me and I pull her closer. The protectiveness I feel is almost overwhelming. She's mine now and not in some romantic, hearts-and-flowers way, but something deeper, more primal.
We're bound by blood and the understanding that we're becoming one.
Small gasps of air come from her slightly parted plump lips. She looks peaceful and content. Like she's exactly where she's supposed to be. And maybe she is. Maybe this was fate.
I think about what comes next, about the road ahead and the trouble we'll inevitably find or create, the hunger we'll feed together. There's no going back from this after what happened tonight, we’re bonded.
I run my thumb along the curve of her jaw, and she makes a small sound in her sleep, similar to a purr.
I wonder what she's dreaming about. If she's replaying the bar fight in her mind, the way I am.
If she's thinking about the blood on my knuckles, the evil in my eyes with the absolute lack of hesitation when I broke that man.
Eventually, my own exhaustion catches up with me. The adrenaline has finally burned off, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness. I let my eyes close, my arms still wrapped around Roxy, and drift into sleep.
I wake to the sound of her phone buzzing. The light coming through the van windows is different now, full morning beams so bright I wince as I adjust. Roxy stirs against me, making a small noise of protest at being woken.
Her phone buzzes again.
"What time is it?" she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep.
I reach for my own phone on the floor beside the bed. 9:47am. And there's a news alert on the screen.
brEAKING: Man dies following bar altercation in...
My blood goes cold.
"Roxy."
Something in my voice makes her wake fully. She pushes herself up, looking at me with those big brown eyes still hazy with sleep. "What?"
I hand her my phone and she reads the alert, her expression shifting from confusion to understanding to something else entirely.
"He's dead," she whispers.
"Looks that way."
She scrolls down, reading more. I watch her face as she takes it in. All of the details about the fight, the description of the suspect (young male, dark hair, tattoos on forearms), the police investigation.
When she looks up at me, there's no worry in her eyes. There's a thrill. I can see it in the way her pupils dilate, the way her breathing quickens, the flush creeping up her neck. The same dark excitement I'm feeling, mirrored back at me.
"They're looking for you," she says.
"Now that may be a problem."
"You killed him."
"I didn't mean to." The words come out flat. "But I did, shit happens."
She's quiet for a moment, still holding my phone, reading. Then she sets it down and looks at me with an intensity that makes me feel more alive than ever.
"We need to leave," she says. "Now. Before anyone connects you to this."
"Roxy, relax."
"No."
She's already moving, climbing off the bed, reaching for her clothes and I’m briefly distracted by her hot naked body. Those fucking tits are gonna be my addiction.
"We need to go. Different state, different direction. They'll be looking for you. Shit…"
I grab her wrist, pulling her back to me. "Roxy. Stop."
She does, but I can feel the tension vibrating through her. She’s worried they will take me away from her, but I won’t let that happen.
"Are you scared?" I ask.
She meets my eyes. "No."
"You should be, this is real now."
"I'm not." Her voice is steady and certain.
"I'm not scared of you. I'm not scared of what happened. I'm just…" She pauses, searching for words. "We crossed a line, you know that, right?"
"Obviously."
"And you're okay with that?"
I pull her closer, my hand sliding to the back of her neck. "The question is, are you okay with that? Because I don’t give a shit."
The question sits with her as she considers what to say. I don’t care about the outcome of the dead guy, I only care that we stay together and get the police away from us.
Before I can speak, she leans in and kisses me. Hard and fast. A kiss that tastes like acceptance and something that might be relief. When she pulls back, her eyes are bright.
"We're in this together now."
"Yeah we are."
"Murder," she says, testing the word. "We're murderers."
"You didn't kill him."
"But I'm with you. I'm choosing this. Choosing you." Her hand comes up to cup my face. "That makes me just as guilty."
The dark thrill I saw in her eyes earlier is still there, and I realize with absolute certainty that she's not upset by what we've done.
She's exhilarated. Fuck, she’s perfect for me.
"We need to move," she says again, but this time there's no panic in her voice, just determination. "We have to get ahead of this and disappear before they can connect the dots."
"Okay."
She starts gathering our things, moving with purpose. I take the time to watch her, this sexy ass woman who just found out I killed someone and responded not with anxiety but with a strategy. No judgment, but becoming a partnership.
I stand and start helping her pack. Neither of us speaks, but we don't need to. We both understand what just happened. What we've become, crossing into murder territory together, and there's no going back from that.
Only forward, into whatever comes next.
Together.