Page 93 of Dirty Hit
His nostrils flare. “She does not get to corner you, scream in your face, slap you, and yank on you like you belong to her, just because she’s upset. She doesn’t get to demand access to you because she misses you. She doesn’t get to use tears and guilt and your parents and whatever else she thinks works, then turn violent when it doesn’t.”
The world tilts, his words banging against everything I’ve been taught.
“That’s not how this works,” I say, my head spinning. “She’s—she’s a person, Dom.”
He leans in, his face inches from mine, eyes flat and terrifyingly clear. “So are you,” he says. “You’remyperson. That’s the difference.”
My knees almost give out.
This is what it means to belong to a monster,I think, dazed.
This is what it means to be his.
Dominic
Thesecondthewords“you’re my person”leave my mouth, I know I’ve fucked us both.
Because it’s true. Because it feels right. Because I mean it in a way that’s too big to say in a parking lot, with someone unconscious on the asphalt beside us.
Brendon’s knees almost buckle when I say it. His eyes go glassy, not just with fear but with that overloaded look he gets when I hit some nerve no one’s touched before.
His brain’s trying to run three scripts at once. If I leave him standing here like this, he’s going to either shut down, or start talking too much—and both of those options are dangerous.
“Brendon,” I say, but softer now; less steel, more command. His gaze jerks, finally focusing, and that’s enough. I squeeze his jaw once, then let go and step back so he has to decide whether to follow. “Listen to me. You’re going to get in your car, drive to my place, and wait inside the cottage—door locked, lights on, phone on you. You’re not going to talk to anybody on the way. You’re not going to look back. Do you understand?”
He stares at me, then swallows hard and nods, the motion jerky. “Dom,” he starts, voice cracking, “we can’t just leave her, we have to—”
“I’m not leaving her,” I cut in, keeping my tone flat and steady; the same one I use when calling plays in the huddle and the clock’s bleeding out. “I’ve got her. You being here only makes this messier. I know for a fact the cameras over this lot are dead. Campus never fixed them after the last budget cut. I’m going to handle this, and control the narrative. You, Little Sin, are going to get the fuck out of here and pretend you heard a noise and thought it was nothing. Go.Now.”
The mention of cameras seems to crack through some of the paralysis, because his eyes dart up to the nearest dead metal eye, bolted to the side of the building, then down to Hannah, then back to me.
“You’re sure she’s—”
“She’s breathing,” I say again, more clipped this time. “Her pulse is steady. I didn’t hit her hard enough to drop her GPA, I just tuned her out for the evening. I’ll take her to the clinic, they’ll slap an ice pack on her, tell her to keep an eye out for a concussion, and send her home. You don’t need to be anywhere near the paper trail for that. Get in the car, Brendon. That’s me being protective, in case you missed it.”
His jaw works and I see the brat twitch, the part of him that wants to argue, to stay, to make sure I’m not lying about her being okay, but his survival instincts finally kick back on. He nods, and fumbles his keys out of his pocket with hands that are not as steady as he’d like them to be.
“You’ll text me?”
“I’ll text you when I’m leaving the clinic,” I assure him. “And if you aren’t on my couch by the time I get home, I’m going to be pissed in a way you really don’t want to test tonight. Go.”
That finally moves him. He shoots me one last wild, searching look and I hold his gaze, keeping my expression calm the way I do when the stadium is roaring and we’re down by four with a minute left. Then, he slides into the car, shuts the door, and a second later the engine turns over. He pulls out of the lot, taillights shrinking, and I wait until they disappear before I let my shoulders drop a fraction.
The parking lot is quiet again: just me, the glow of a few security lights, and Hannah—sprawled on the asphalt with a blooming welt on her forehead. I breathe out slowly, counting heartbeats, making sure the urge to finish what I started stays leashed.
I didn’t hit her with killing intent. I checked that in the half-second between raising my hand and bringing her head down. It was a warning, a line in the sand, a blunt-force reminder that no means no and my boy doesn’t owe her shit.
I crouch beside her, fingers pressing to the side of her neck; pulse is there, strong enough, just a little thready from shock. Pupils are pinpoint when I pry an eyelid open, which is fine. She’s out cold and not going anywhere. I give it another minute, then pat her cheek lightly, adjusting my whole demeanor the way I adjust my shoulders before a press conference.
“Hannah,” I say, voice pitched into that easy, warm register the cameras love. “Hey, come on. Wake up for me.”
She stirs, a small grimace crossing her face, then lets out a faint groan. Her lashes flutter and she blinks up at me, confusion filling the space where anger was ten minutes ago. I keep my posture open, my hands visible, and my expression set to ‘worried golden boy.’
“That’s it,” I murmur. “Hey. You with me?”
“Wha…?” She winces, hand going to her temple. “My head.”
“Yeah, you took a spill,” I say, keeping my tone gentle. “I was walking through the lot and saw you on the ground. You must’ve slipped or something. Scared the shit out of me, honestly.”
