I pace past the bed. Again.
It’s almost midnight.
Dom has been gone for ten hours, and I don’t know if this is normal behavior for him or if I should be worried.
My hands ball into fists, making the tender skin on my left ring finger throb.
“This asshole,” I hiss, shaking out my hand.
It finally sank in, around the time the armed guard in the hallway handed over my bag of takeout, that I’m really in it. Like, really in it.
I stare at the four Dominics circling my finger, making a point to avoid looking at the Til Death below my nail.
I can’t believe he did this to me.
Seriously, can’t believe it.
And I can’t believe I’m not more angry about it.
Really, I’m more embarrassed than anything, because, eventually, I’m going to be back out in public, and it looks so out of place on me that I’m sure every person I pass will stare at it.
Maybe if I get a sleeve tattoo and paint my nails black, it won’t stand out so much.
After Dom left me here, I stood in the living room for a weird amount of time, then gave up trying to feel comfortable in the giant space and came back up to the bedroom.
I showered off the funeral. Then I got into my comfiest sweatpants, and because it looked soft, I pulled a Yale sweatshirt off one of Dom’s hangers and put that on, too.
Then I sat on the bed with my laptop and caught up on work. And Dominic still wasn’t home.
So then I sat on the overstuffed chair in the corner of the bedroom and googled Dominic Gonzalez.
Mostly photos of him at big city events. One article title speculated about his involvement in the Chicago mafia. But overall, there was surprisingly little.
So, of course, then I did a search for The Alliance.
Which led to a text from King asking why I’m looking them up online. Which then led to me slamming my laptop shut and turning my phone off.
And now, with nothing left to do, I’m pacing. Wondering if there’s a way out of this.
I spin around and pace back across the room when a sound stops me.
Was that the front door?
I tiptoe toward the bedroom door and lean into the opening to listen.
Footsteps.
All I hear are footsteps echoing through that giant-ass main room. But how the hell am I supposed to know if it’s Dom or someone else?
While you’re here, you’re safe.
I back away from the door.
The footsteps are on the stairs.
It has to be him.
I keep backing up, around the foot of the bed and over to the side I slept on last night.
Torn between looking for a weapon and faking sleep, I’m standing there, frozen, when Dominic appears in the doorway.
He stops when he spots me, and I let out a rough exhale.
“You scared me,” I accuse.
He grins. “That mean you’re happy to see me?”
I narrow my eyes. “I was worried it might be an axe murderer. So, sure, I’m glad it’s you instead.”
“Next time I’ll…” Dom trails off, and I follow his line of sight to my chest. “Hmm, I like that.”
I pluck at the fabric. “You like me covered in your baggy clothes?”
“I like you covered in my alma mater.”
My eyes widen, and I look back down at the sweatshirt. “You went to Yale?”
He stalks around the bed toward me. “Yeah, all the good schools were full.”
“I figured you stole it.” I shuffle a step back. “I didn’t know Ivy League offered gangster studies.”
Dom barks out a laugh, and I hate it. Because I wish he did it more often. “Dammit, Valentine, I like you.”
“I—Well… I don’t like you.” The heat of my words is lessened by my hurried climb onto the bed. The only form of escape left to me.
His chuckle lets me know my barb didn’t hit. “You liked me once. You will again.”
I huff and drag the blankets up to my chin. “Your side of the bed is over there.” I nod my head in the other direction.
He sits on the mattress next to my hip. “Give me your finger.”
I hold up my middle finger.
“Cute.”
I keep my left hand under the blanket. “Why? You gonna try to fill in the millimeter of blank skin you left?”
Dom holds up a small jar I hadn’t noticed in his grip.
Only the dim ceiling lights are on, but I recognize the white jar and blue lid. Since I’ve always been fascinated by tattoos, I’ve looked up all the prep and aftercare. And I believe that’s an ointment used to keep your tattoo looking nice.
Not willing to let go of my defiance, even flat on my back, I keep my hand where it is. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but this tattoo isn’t exactly something I want. So keeping it pretty isn’t really a high priority.”
“Two things.”
“It’s always two things with you,” I mutter.
Dominic looks like he’s trying not to smile, but he fails. “Two things,” he repeats. “One, what’s worse? Having a tattoo you don’t want, or having a tattoo you don’t want that also looks bad?” I don’t give him an answer. “And two, I bet that dainty little finger of yours is sore. This will help.” He shakes the jar.
“My fingers aren’t dainty.” I’m grumbling. I know I’m grumbling because I hate that he has a point.
He lifts a dark brow. “Have you already forgotten about that time we put our hands palm to palm? Your fingers are extremely dainty compared to mine.”
He’s talking about our first plane ride.
Because I don’t want to discuss that, and because my finger does hurt, and because—fine, he’s right—I don’t want the tattoo to heal poorly and look even more dumb than it already does, I pull my hand out from under the blanket.
“I’m still mad,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“This wasn’t okay, Dom.”
His eyes narrow the slightest bit, but he doesn’t reply as he unscrews the lid and swipes his fingertips across the surface of the substance.
“I can do it.” My jaw clenches. I don’t want him taking care of me.
Dom sets the jar on the nightstand. “I’m doing it.”
“No,” I start, but his hand darts out and grips my wrist, dragging my hand closer to him.
“Dominic, knock it off!” I try to shove him away with my right hand, but he’s immovable.
“Just hold still, Shorty.”
I try to slap him away again, but he deflects with his elbow and swipes the ointment across my skin.
I brace myself, but his touch is so light it doesn’t hurt at all. It… feels good. Soothing.
Bastard. It would be better if this hurt. If I could be angry over him causing me pain.
Watching him carefully rub my finger is too much, so I close my eyes.
But that’s a mistake, too, because now there’s nothing to distract me from his touch. From the warmth of his hold on me.
My thighs press together under the blankets.
Up and down, his fingers slide over mine.
The irritated skin has already cooled, but my blood is heating, and I can’t take any more.
“Okay.” I pull my hand away and hope he doesn’t notice how breathy I sound.
My eyes are still closed, and I wait for him to stand, to leave, but he doesn’t.
There’s movement. The sound of rustling clothes and the jar being… set back down on the nightstand?
I crack my eyes open.
And then they widen all the way.
“What…?” I sit up and shove at Dominic’s arm. “What is that?”
His shirt is unbuttoned, and he runs his ointment-covered fingers across his neck one last time before he lets me push his arm down.
“Dominic!” I gasp.
“You were right, Angel. It’s only fair.”
I blink. And blink again.
“Just the one?” I ask, not able to help myself.
“But it’s big.” Dom smirks. “And size matters.”
I lean closer, shaking my head while I stare at the giant name tattooed across the base of his neck.
My name.
Valentine. In big black letters.
Not able to stop myself, I reach out and trace the V.
It’s the same font that was used on me.
“This doesn’t make up for what you did,” I whisper, even as I trace the A and the L.
“Of course not.” His voice is quiet, too.
I hadn’t even noticed he had a strip of bare skin left, but it fits perfectly.
When I get to the center line of the E, I trace it, then drag my finger across the rest of the letters.
“I still don’t forgive you.” My finger slides down the center of his chest, stopping on the skull.
“You shouldn’t.”
I drop my hand down onto my lap. “I’m going to go to sleep now.”
“You probably should.”
I don’t actually expect him to leave me alone, so I’m surprised when he stands.
But he doesn’t leave the room or get into bed. He grabs the jar off the nightstand, then backs up to the armchair in the corner of the room.
He sets the jar down on the armrest, then takes his shirt off the rest of the way.
And his belt.
And then he’s undoing his pants and kicking them off when they hit the ground.
Boxers. He’s left in nothing but boxers, and they’re not doing anything to hide the fact that he’s rock-hard beneath them.
“W-what are you doing?” I know I should lie down and face the other way, but I can’t. I just can’t turn away from him.
“There wasn’t room to add Til Death next to your name. So I had to find somewhere else to put it.”
Speechless, I stare as he pushes down the waistband of his boxers to his hips.
I don’t even notice that the patch of hair trailing down from his belly button has been shaved. I can’t possibly focus on that. Because there, right above Dom’s cock—like directly above the base of his fucking cock—are the words Til Death.
Big block letters to match his Valentine.
A lewd, oversized version of the tiny Til Death on my fingertip.
“You’re insane.” I almost laugh at the absurdity of it all. Except I’m too turned on to laugh. I want to trace the letters on this one, too.
“More often than not,” Dom admits as he drops into the chair. Lounging back, he dips his fingers in the ointment and rubs it over the fresh ink.
I want to be the one doing that.
His eyes stay on me as he rubs over the letters.
Not able to take it anymore, I drop onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
This is insane.
I keep staring.
For about five seconds. Then I turn my head to look back at Dominic.
And I have to bite my lip to trap the moan trying to come out of my throat because he’s pushing his boxers lower.
