Page 133 of Dirty Hit
“How did you fall in love with a sinner?” he asks, a rough echo of the question that’s been screaming in my own head.
“Bad aim,” I say, because humor is easier than honesty—and he knows me well enough to hear the truth under it, anyway. “Or, maybe God thought it’d be funny.”
He snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Your God’s got a fucked sense of humor,” he says.
“Tell me about it,” I say, and then, because the ache in my chest is too big to hold in anymore and the words are already half out, I add, “I don’t think He’s the one at the wheel anymore, though.”
Dom’s brows pull together. “Then who is?” he asks.
I lean down, pressing my forehead to his, his lips only a breath away. “You,” I whisper. “My stupid, broken, beautiful Beast. You took over somewhere between threatening to kill me, and making me breakfast.”
His eyes close, lashes brushing my cheek. “That’s a bad fucking idea,” he murmurs, words ghosting against my mouth.
“I know,” I say, voice steady, even as everything in me trembles. “I’m having a lot of those lately.”
He huffs out a tiny laugh that’s mostly pain. “Little Sin,” he says, a warning, a plea, and a prayer, all in one.
I kiss the scar under his heart again, then lift my head and kiss his mouth, feeling every broken, soft piece of him press backinto mine—knowing exactly how dangerous it is, and choosing it anyway.
When we finally break apart, his forehead stays pressed to mine. His breathing is uneven, and I can feel the way his chest rises and falls under my palm; too fast for someone who was half-asleep a minute ago.
He doesn’t look away—there’s no smirk, no filthy joke, and no deflection. Just Dominic, raw and wrecked and staring at me like I’ve opened his ribs with my bare hands.
His fingers flex against my back, pulling me closer, until there’s no space left between us. When he speaks, his voice is ragged.
“I love you, Brendon.”
It lands in my chest so hard my breath leaves all at once.
He closes his eyes for a second, as if saying it both costs him and frees him at the same time, then presses one more slow kiss to my mouth, lingering there just long enough to make my heart ache.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my lips. “I really fucking do.”
I kiss him again instead of answering, because there’s no version of me that survives hearing that and does anything else.
Dominic
Whentheawaygamerolls around, my life is back to its usual brand of fucked.
Strangers in public. Lovers in private. That’s the rhythm we’ve fallen into again, like the week apart, and the mess in the middle, was just a glitch the universe threw in to see if it could shake us loose.
On campus, we’re exactly who everyone thinks we are. I’m Lakehaven’s golden boy, straight as a fucking ruler, throwing practice passes and laughing too loud at jokes I don’t find funny. He’s the serious TA, with his neat shirts, and his folders, and his cross. We pass each other in hallways, and lecture halls, and on the quad, and we pretend nothing exists between us, except maybe a professional nod.
But his office has seen more sin in the last week than most bedrooms have in a lifetime.
The cottage is off-limits, because my mother is still in town—floating in and out of places she shouldn’t be. She showed up atpractice again two days ago, sunglasses on, Kyra sitting beside her looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.
I felt the weight of her gaze every time I dropped back in the pocket. When your mother trains you to kill, you don’t ever really forget what her attention feels like. That’s why I’m keeping Brendon off that property; I can’t have the two halves of my life overlap under that roof. The idea of her scent mixing with his within those four walls makes my skin crawl.
So, we’ve been using his tiny office instead.
The first time after everything, he tried to keep it professional. He had his laptop open, my coursework pulled up, and a list of things we needed to cover before the away game, so my grades didn’t tank again.
I shut the door behind me, turned the lock, and at the sound, he looked up with that wide-eyed, cornered-deer expression I’ve learned means his brain is thinking about running, while his body is already halfway to kneeling.
It went downhill from there. Academically speaking.
Now, there’s a subtle tension in him every time I show up at the door with my backpack and my fake polite smile. He’ll let me in, shut the door, and for five whole minutes we actually talk about contracts, torts, and case law. Then I’ll lean back in the shitty chair that complains every time I shift, stretch my legs out, and his eyes will flick down to my mouth—like they’ve been waiting all day for an excuse.
