Page 13 of Dirty Hit
“You’re adorable when you try to assert yourself.”
“I’m not trying to assert myself,” he replies stiffly. “I’m trying to help you.”
I stand up slowly, and he follows suit a second later, slinging his bag over his shoulder. I step closer, invading his space deliberately, watching the way his breath catches.
“Look at me,” I say, and his green eyes hold mine—steady but alert. “You remember what I said earlier?”
He nods, the flush on his neck deepening. “I won’t tell.”
“Good, because I’d hate to ruin that pretty face,” I say and reach out, brushing my thumb briefly along his jaw, testing him. He freezes but doesn’t pull away, the flush returning. “See you next session, Little Sin.”
His eyes flash, and I see the shame in them. “Don’t call me that.”
I smile. “I’m so gonna call you that.”
“It’s inappropriate,” he says, his voice strained.
“So is what you saw,” I reply, and my tone stays light even as I watch the fear flicker back into his eyes. “So, here’s how this works: you keep your mouth shut about what happened here today, you show up when you’re scheduled to show up, you do your little tutor thing, and nobody gets hurt. You break that—you tell anyone, you even hint at it—and I promise you, Brendon, you won’t get the chance to regret it.”
His breath catches. “Are you threatening me?”
“Yes, I am,” I say, reaching out and hooking one finger under the chain at his chest. He inhales quickly, and his hands clench at his sides. “You’re a good boy. Stay that way.”
I let the chain drop, the cross settling back against his shirt, and I step aside, giving him a clear path to the door. He doesn’t bolt. He walks out with control, shoulders tense, head held high.
“And Little Sin?”
He pauses at the threshold and looks back. I catch the way his eyes flick over me, quick and unwilling. It makes my stomach tighten with satisfaction. “What?”
“Be on time,” I say, and the warning sits inside the words, heavy and quiet. “Good boys don’t make me wait.”
He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You’re disgusting,” he mutters before walking out, andfuck me, it sends a shiver right through my body.
That kitten has claws, and I can’t wait to feel them digging in.
Brendon
WhenIstepontocampus the next morning, I’ve already decided that yesterday did not happen.
I tell myself that over and over as I cross the parking lot with my bag over my shoulder and my coffee cooling in my hand. The sky is that washed-out gray that makes everything feel flat—students are moving around me in clumps laughing, talking, and complaining about exams.
I slide into the flow of bodies, and pull on my normal face the way I shrug on a jacket. I know the routine. Smile at people from class. Nod at the girl from my study group. Say“good morning”to Professor Hargrove when I pass by his office.
Walk, talk, breathe, pretend.
Yesterday didn’t happen.
I didn’t knock on a half-open door and walk into a cottage that smelled like copper. I didn’t see Lakehaven’s golden boy kneeling over a man with his hands around his throat. I didn’t hear that wet, choked sound as the fight left a stranger’s body. I didn’t sit at a dining room table while listening to DominicVolkov make a call aboutdisposalin the same tone other people use to order pizza.
I definitely didn’t stay.
I hold onto that lie with white-knuckled stubbornness because the truth is too big. I push it down and tell myself a different story. I’m a TA with a full schedule. I have back-to-back lectures today, office hours, and a stack of undergrad essays to grade. I have Dominic’s assignments in my bag, printed and highlighted because I stayed up half the night rereading them, trying to figure out where to start when I go back to his place tomorrow night.
My stomach flips when I think about that part, so I shut it down too. No. I’m not thinking about going back. I’m not thinking about walking into that house again. I’m not thinking about how calmly he looked at me and threatened my little sister’s life.
I’m definitely not thinking about the way his voice lowered when he said, “Good boys don’t make me wait.” I’m not thinking about how close he stood. How his eyes watched my mouth. How my heart stuttered even while I hated him. That wasn’t attraction; that was shock. Nerves. A fluke.
My first class starts at nine. I sit in the back row, open my laptop, and take notes while the professor talks about statutory interpretation.
