Page 162 of Dirty Hit
He smirks, the first real one I’ve seen since I woke up. “I’m finally hearing a complaint I like,” he says. “That’s kind of the point, Little Sin. I want you dependent on me. I want you stuck. I want you so tangled up in me that when I fuck off to the NFL, you just come with me like luggage.”
“That’s romantic,” I say dryly.
“I killed my mother for you,” he says. “That’s the best you’re getting.”
I laugh again, softer this time. It still hurts, but it hurts less when he’s looking at me like that—like I’m the only thing anchoring him to this plastic chair.
“But I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “You get that, right? I’m not pulling the disappearing act again. No more sitting across the quad, pretending you’re a stranger. No more girls on my lap, so you think I don’t care.” His mouth twists. “That was fucking stupid anyway.”
A weak smile tugs at my lips. “Yeah, it was.”
His eyes soften. “I’m going to fuck up,” he says. “I’m wired to. I’m still a killer, and I’m not going to lie to you about suddenly becoming soft because we cried in a hospital. I’ve got bodies to account for, people to shove out of our orbit, a sister to stash somewhere safe. But whatever I do, I’m doing it with you in mind now. You’re not collateral. You’re my priority.”
I let that sink in. It tastes terrifying and sweet and completely wrong, according to every sermon I’ve ever heard. It also feels more honest than anything my parents said to me in the last year.
“I missed you,” I say, because all the bigger words feel too heavy right now.
His expression crumples in this brief, unguarded way that makes my heart lurch. He dips his head, presses his mouth to my knuckles.
“I know,” he says against my skin. “I missed you too. More than is healthy. More than I’m built for. That’s why you scared me so bad. You bleed, and suddenly the whole world goes sideways.”
My throat tightens. “My world’s been sideways since the first time I saw you standing over a body.”
He huffs out a laugh that sounds halfway to another breakdown. “We’re fucked,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “But we’re fucked together.”
He lifts his head, eyes searching mine. Whatever he sees there seems to settle him. He squeezes my hand once more, then leans back just enough that he isn’t hovering over my chest.
“You need to rest,” he says. “The doctor said you’re here at least tonight, maybe longer. I’ll be here. For once, you don’t have to manage anyone. Just rest and sleep.”
I look at the bandage, at the IV lines, and the exhaustion in his eyes.
“What about you?” I ask. “You look worse. I heard a rumor you cried.”
He groans. “Remind me to strangle Kyra for that later.”
“Gently,” I say. “She kind of scares me.”
“She’s five-two,” he says. “And you’re scared of everyone.”
“Wrong,” I say, letting my eyes start to slide closed because the meds are winning. “I’m not scared of you. That probably makes me the stupidest person in this entire hospital.”
His hand tightens around mine again, and I feel the press of his lips against my fingers, warm and solid.
“You’re not stupid,” he murmurs. “You’re mine.”
The beeping steadies. The drugs drag at my consciousness, thick and insistent. My eyes start to droop even though I want to stay awake, want to keep watching him as proof he’s actually here and not some fever hallucination.
“Dom,” I mumble, fighting the pull. “Don’t… leave.”
His hand tightens around mine, grip warm. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Pinky promise.”
I don’t have the strength to lift my hand, but I feel his fingers shift, his smallest finger curling around mine where it rests on the blanket. The stupid little gesture we made a joke of in his kitchen feels like a spell now, binding us tighter than any ring or vow spoken in front of a congregation.
The monitor keeps beeping its steady little rhythm. For the first time since the knife, my body starts to unclench. The pain doesn’t vanish, but it settles into something manageable, layered under the warmth spreading from where our hands are joined.
My parents walked away.
