Page 131 of Dirty Hit
My childhood damage comes with Bible verses, disappointed sighs, and subtle, layered guilt. Dominic’s comes with blood and bodies and a woman who could make a knife feel like a hug.
Different languages; same story.
“Everything wrong with you was put there by someone else.”
When he said that to me the first time, I thought he was just trying to dismantle my shame; make me stop taking all the blame for every fucked up want in my head. Sitting here now, cradled in his arms, I realise he wasn’t only talking about me.
Everything… wrong with you.
He meant himself, too.
I shift a little, sliding my hand up from his ribs to his chest under the thin cotton of his T-shirt. He whimpers in his sleep at the movement. It’s not loud, more of a breath catching on the way out, but his body tenses. My palm spreads flat over warm skin, and under it I feel the familiar uneven landscape I’ve traced a hundred times now—raised lines, smooth puckered circles, ridges interrupted by dips.
Scars. So many scars, hidden under tattoos.
I’ve known they were there from the first night he let me see him without a shirt on, all tattoos and ink and shadows that almost hide the white lines underneath. I always told myself they were from football, accidents, or the childhood he never talks about. I let myself believe it, because believing anything else felt too big.
Now I know better. Shemadehim into this. Not just metaphorically;literally.Hands-on, in the worst possible way.
My fingers follow one of the longer scars, the one that runs diagonally from his left shoulder, across his chest, and toward his ribs.
He whimpers again and shifts, his grip unconsciously tightening around my waist. That stupid, warm feeling hits me again. He’s the dangerous one, the one with blood under his nails and bodies in his rearview mirror, and yet his sleeping brain is scared I’ll leave if he loosens his hold for half a second.
“How did I end up here?” I mutter under my breath. “What are you doing to me, Beast?”
I slide my hand lower, letting my fingers trace another scar near his sternum, this one smaller; a circle with faint radiating marks where the skin pulled tight. Bullet, maybe.
He had nobody.
“Everything wrong with you was put there by someone else,” I whisper, fingertips skating over the scar again. “You weren’t born this way, either.”
His head rolls slightly on the pillow, brows pulling together in the faintest frown, like some part of him hears me through whatever nightmare or fog he’s in. His hand slides up my back, bunching the fabric of my shirt in his fist, then relaxes again without him fully waking.
My throat thickens as I lean down and press my lips to the scar. Just a soft kiss, nothing deep, nothing sexual. It’s reverent in a way that would make my father throw holy water if he sawit. I kiss it again, letting my mouth linger against that raised line of skin until my eyes sting and my nose burns, and I have to pull back for air before I embarrass myself.
I move to another mark, a smaller slash near his collarbone, half-hidden under ink and shadows. I kiss that one, too. Then another where the skin looks a little more jagged, like it didn’t heal right the first time. Each touch feels like a quiet argument with whoever did this. ‘You didn’t win. He’s still here. He’s loved.’
“Idiot,” I murmur against his chest, voice shaking more than I want it to. “My stupid, beautiful idiot.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and breathe through my nose until the prickling feeling fades, refusing to let tears fall. I know myself well enough to know that if I start crying right now, I’m not going to stop—and then he’ll wake up, and I’ll have to explain, and I don’t want to explain this. I just want to keep this moment for me.
How did I fall in love with a sinner?
The answer is messy, stupid, and also simple. One day at a time. One bad decision at a time. It didn’t happen all at once; there was no lightning bolt, no grand revelation. Just a thousand small moments where he chose me, or touched me, or looked at me with softness he always tried to disguise.
I look at his scars, and I want to rip time apart and pull that boy out of every room she ever put him in. I want to stand between him and every lesson she taught him with a weapon in her hand. I want to throw my body over his, and tell him he doesn’t have to earn love by performing violence.
I can’t do any of that; the past is done. All I can do is kiss these marks, and try to be different than what he expects. Try not to flinch when he comes home with blood on him. Try not to pretend he’s anything other than what he is. Try to love him anyway.
I end up straddling his hips, my knees planted on either side of him, thighs snug against his. My palms lie flat on his chest for balance, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart under my hands.
There’s a slackness to his face he never has when he’s awake. No smirk or carefully controlled blankness—just a young man who’s bone-deep exhausted. I never let myself think about how young he actually is when we’re awake together. It makes everything too raw.
I lean down again, closer now that I’m above him. The position feels intimate in a different way than when we’re doing anything sexual. There’s power here, yeah; technically, I’m the one hovering, but it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m guarding him, for once.
My lips move slowly, mapping a path across his chest. Scar to scar. Old wound to old wound. The older ones are smoother, pale lines that feel almost silky under my mouth. The newer ones are tighter, less faded, and he twitches when I kiss one near his ribs; a tiny flinch, as if his body remembers the pain, even if his mind is off somewhere else right now.
“Shh,” I whisper. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
