Page 132 of Dirty Hit
It feels strange to say his own line back to him. He’s the one who usually says that. “I’ve got you.” He says it like a promise and a threat all at once; like he’s reassuring me and anchoring himself at the same time. Saying it now, to him, makes my chest squeeze.
I kiss along the edges of his tattoos, tracing the black lines inked over old damage. I wonder how many of those tattoos were chosen to cover what she did. How many designs were picked because he couldn’t stand the sight of a certain scar anymore. How many times he sat in that chair, under a buzzing needle, and thought, ‘if I put something beautiful here, maybe I don’t have to see the ugly underneath’.
“I love you,” I whisper, so quietly the words barely leave my lips. Saying it out loud feels like stepping off a ledge, even if I’m pretty sure he won’t hear it. “You’re a mess, and you kill people, and you make the worst jokes, and you piss me off more than anyone I’ve ever met—and I love you so much it scares me.”
His grip on my thigh settles and turns more relaxed, his breathing deepening again. Whatever his subconscious was reacting to seems to calm under the steady pattern of my touch. It hits me then, in a quiet, simple way, that I can do that for him. He’s not just the one who pulls me back from the edge; I can drag him away from his own hell, when he falls too far into it.
I kiss the scar that sits closest to his heart again, lingering there, one hand sliding up to frame the side of his face. My thumb brushes along his jaw and the faint stubble there, tension visible even asleep.
“I love you,” I breathe against his skin, so quiet I’m not sure if I said it out loud or just thought it.
He makes a sound.
It’s small, but distinct; a rough little noise that carries my name wrapped in it. His hand slides up from my hip to my lower back, pulling me down a fraction more. His eyes blink open, unfocused at first, pupils huge in the dim light.
“Bren,” he croaks, voice wrecked with sleep. “What’re you… doing?”
I freeze, caught like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. “Couldn’t sleep,” I say, because that’s true. “You were… whimpering. I was just…”
“Just…?” he prompts, throat working as he tries to drag himself fully awake.
“Just… kissing your scars,” I quietly admit, cheeks burning, even as the words leave my mouth. “I wanted to.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks, and his hand tightens at my back, then loosens, as if he’s fighting two instincts at once: push meoff, or drag me closer. His eyes flick down to his own chest, taking in the damp spots where my mouth has been, then back up to my face.
“Fuck,” he whispers. There’s nothing filthy in it this time—simply raw, startled emotion.
I brace myself for him to make a joke, or defuse the moment; to joke about worship, or altars, or how much of a dirty little saint I am. Instead, he reaches up with his other hand and cups the side of my neck, thumb resting against the pulse he can probably feel pounding there.
“That’s dangerous,” he says softly.
“Kissing you?” I ask, trying for light and failing.
“Loving me like that,” he corrects, no hesitation.
My heart stutters. I guess we’re past pretending now.
“Too late,” I say, because I’m tired of lying by omission, at least to myself. “Damage is done.”
He huffs out a noise that might be a laugh, might be a choked-off sob. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “It is.”
“Why do you have so many scars?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “Did someone… did other people try to hurt you, or was this just… your life?”
Dominic doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans in, resting his forehead lightly against mine. I can feel the warmth of him, the faint scrape of stubble on his jaw, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“There’s a difference?” he finally asks, and it fucking breaks my heart.
His thumb strokes my throat, slow and steady, as the other hand slides higher on my back, between my shoulder blades, supporting me as if he’s afraid I’ll topple. The weight of his gaze is almost overwhelming.
“You get it now, don’t you?”
“Get what?” I ask, even though I know.
“Why I’m so fucked up,” he says bluntly. “Why I am the way I am. Why there’s blood on my hands, even when I scrub.”
I look down at the scar under my hand, then back up at him. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I get it more than I did before. Doesn’t make me like any of it. Doesn’t make it okay. But… I get it.”
He searches my face again, waiting for the disgust to kick in, or for me to recoil. I stay right where I am: hands on his chest, knees bracketing his hips, heart pounding too loud.
