Page 17 of Dirty Hit
“You’re shaking,” he says softly.
“I’m terrified,” I manage, the words breaking a little on the exhale. He doesn’t know I’m not terrified of him, but of my own thoughts.
The hand at my neck tightens enough that I feel the pressure, feel the promise of what he could do if he decided to stop playing.
“Dominic—”
“Calm down,” he whispers. “If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t be standing.”
“That’s not a comfort,” I say, voice strained.
He huffs a laugh, breath warm against my cheek. “You’re still talking back.”
“You’re still breaking boundaries,” I shoot back, the words slipping out on nerves and reflex. “That fits the pattern.”
“You really going to sass me when my hand’s around your throat?” he asks, squeezing harder.
My breath stutters, and a sound slips out of me before I can bite it back—a small, helpless whine that embarrasses me the second it hits the air.
As soon as it’s out, I know it’s a mistake.
Dominic goes very still.
His pupils blow wide, then his gaze drops to my mouth and glides back up again. The fingers around my throat flex once, just a fraction, and his breath catches in a way that matches mine.
I know with sinking, absolute certainty that whatever line I thought I could hold between us just snapped, and I have no idea how to tie it back together.
Dominic
Thesoundhemakesslams into me harder than any hit I have ever taken on the field.
It’s not fear, exactly. There is fear in it, sure, because he’s a good boy backed against a wall with a killer’s hand around his throat. But there’s tension tangled up in that noise he makes, and it drags a shiver down my spine so fast I have to tighten my grip just to steady myself.
His body goes very, very still, and the whole world narrows to that one point of contact.
Fuck. Me.
A chill rolls through me, leaving goosebumps in its wake. I didn’t know I could still feel that. Not from this—not from something as simple as a touch.
I knew darkness was sitting under all that good boy shit, but I didn’t expect it to be this easy to find.
I’m being careful with him. I know exactly how far I can push before it becomes real danger, because I live on that edge in other ways. Right now, I want the reaction, not the damage.
I tighten my grip, and his eyes roll back enough that the whites show and his lashes flutter again. His knees buckle a little, but his hands finally lift to curl lightly around my wrist instead of pushing me away.
“Fuck,” I breathe, unable to hold it in this time. “You made a very pretty sound, Little Sin.”
His eyes flash at that, and there it is again—that stubborn little spark that hooked me yesterday.
I’ve been bored. That’s the honest fucking truth. Killing has turned into routine, and football is expected, a path laid out so clearly I could walk it blindfolded.
They are release valves, and stopped feeling electric a long time ago. I kept doing it because it’s part of me; after all, the urge doesn’t vanish just because the thrill dulls. But it all started to feel like dragging the same knife over the same scar until there’s nothing left to cut.
Then he walked in.
It isn’t rational; I’ve never cared much about rationality when it comes to the part of me that likes blood and hearing people beg. I care about clean execution, about staying out of prison, about not having my name dragged through headlines for the wrong reasons. But inside that framework, I take what I want. I always have.
I could corrupt him so thoroughly before I leave this place.
