Page 47 of Dirty Hit
“Get out,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat in it.
“Yes, sir. I need to blow off some steam, anyway,” I open the door and pause with my hand on the frame. I keep my voice low enough that only he hears it. “See you tomorrow, Little Sin.”
He rolls his eyes, but I see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curl for half a second like he wants to touch the leather cuff and stops himself. “Bye, Dominic.”
I give him a lazy two-finger salute and step out into the hallway, letting the door click shut behind me.
The itch under my skin hasn’t gone away. If anything, talking to him made it worse.
I head down the stairs, hands in my pockets, hoodie pulled up against the wind outside. People move around me, all these little lives bumping into each other, tangling and untangling.
Tonight, I’m not thinking about them. Tonight, I’m thinking about the fact that my muscles feel too tight, and there’s a hollow space in my chest where that particular rush lives.
Two weeks.
It’s starting to grate on me. I can feel the impatience sliding into my bones, the boredom curdling into agitation.
Tomorrow, I’ll sit across from Brendon again. I’ll let him scold my citations and listen to him breathe faster when I lean too close. I’ve been good about not pushing his body since I kissed him, because I wanted his head first.
But tonight, I’m going to remind myself what it feels like when someone’s eyes go flat and empty. I’m going to hear that last breath hitch and stutter, feel that familiar drop in weight when a body stops fighting.
I’m going to fuck someone who isn’t terrified of their own desire, someone I don’t have to calibrate for. Maybe I’ll call Seth;maybe I’ll go hunting on my own. There are always options. Either way, someone’s dying tonight.
And afterward, when my hands stop itching and my head feels clear again, I’ll be in a much better mood to see what else I can pull out of my Little Sin tomorrow.
I adjust the strap of my bag, roll my shoulders, and head for the parking lot—already thinking about where to hunt.
Brendon
WhenIgetbackto my apartment, I’ve replayed the look on Dominic’s face at least twenty times. It still won’t sit right.
He acted normal enough in my office. Or at least his version of normal. Easy smile, lazy posture, that casual way he threw praise at my feet because he knows how easily I blush.
But I’ve spent the last two weeks sitting across from him for hours at a time, learning how his expressions work in the same way I learn how judges write opinions.
I know the difference between his real grin and the one he puts on for cameras. I know the little twitch in his jaw that means he’s irritated, and the slight narrowing of his eyes that means he’s thinking about something he’s not saying.
He didn’t say one thing about Hannah. Which I had expected him to do, especially since he basically said I belonged to him.
He just walked in, watched her leave, dropped the GPA news, and walked out again. On paper, that should be a blessing. He could’ve made it hell for me, but he didn’t.
So why won’t my brain let it go?
Jericho meets me at the door, tail flicking, pupils blown big in the dim entryway. He meows once, as if telling me I’m late.
“I’m on time,” I tell him, toeing my shoes off. “You’re just dramatic.”
He circles my ankles as I walk to the kitchen, threatening to trip me, until I scoop him up under his chest. He sprawls against my arm, purring already, face pressed against my collarbone as I scratch behind his ears. The sound should be soothing; it usually is. Tonight, it just floats over the top of the buzzing in my chest.
I feed him, because I’m not a monster, then stand in the tiny kitchen, staring at nothing while he crunches away at his bowl. I catch sight of the leather cuff on my wrist in the microwave door, and every muscle in my body goes tight.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself. “You’re fine.”
I’m not fine, because he didn’t look happy when he walked away.
“I need to blow off some steam, anyway.”
I push off the counter and pace, hands on my hips. Rationally, his mood isn’t my problem. He’s not my friend—he’s barely my student in any normal sense of the word. He’s my walking, talking, moral disaster, and I’m supposed to be keeping him functional enough to pass his classes.
