Chapter 6 · Where I Can Touch You

Enzo’s flashlight cut under the panel and caught my knees.

I froze. Dust caked my tongue, thick and sour. Behind me, the crawlspace stretched ten feet back, tight as a pine box, and I’d already ripped my left palm open on a rusted nail.

Down the hall, a door slammed.

Then another.

The panel slid back. Fast. Not Enzo’s hand, either.

Dominic.

Bare knuckles, scabbed and split like he’d spent the afternoon hitting something solid. His dress shirt hung open at the throat, no jacket, hair completely trashed like he’d been dragged out of bed by the alarm. A heavy semi-automatic dangled loose in his left hand, pointed straight at the floorboards.

"Evening, Ms. Kessler."

"I got lost."

"Inside my wall."

"Your architect sucks at floor plans."

A muscle twitched by his mouth. Not a smile. He flicked a look past my shoulder into the dark, then dragged his eyes right back to my face.

The brass key was burning against my ribs. I’d lifted it off Enzo’s belt during dinner, and right now the cold metal in my bra felt like a loaded gun pressed to my lung.

"Boss?" Enzo’s voice hit the hall. Heavy boot heels on hardwood, moving fast. "Nothing in the guest suite. Checking the east stairs now."

Dominic didn’t flinch. He reached in, locked his fingers around my good wrist, and hauled. Hard.

"Out," he whispered, right against my ear. "Don’t make a sound."

The panel opened into the back of his walk-in wardrobe. I stumbled out through rows of bespoke wool and heavy coats that smelled like cedar, charcoal, and expensive smoke. He didn't let go. He marched me three steps into the bedroom and shoved me down onto the king mattress.

"What are you—"

He whipped the duvet clean over my head. Chin to toes. Heavy linen smothering me.

"Shut up," he snapped.

Then the mattress dipped hard. He dropped his weight onto the edge right beside me, back flat to my hip, cutting off the view of the bed with his shoulders. His body heat bled straight through the cotton sheets—scorching, solid. The bed was still warm from him sleeping in it. It hit my bare thighs, and God, I hated how fast my skin answered it.

The bedroom door banged open.

"Sorry, boss." Enzo’s beam slashed across the ceiling, then snapped down onto the mound of blankets under Dominic’s hip. "She’s gone from the west room. Window latch is bolted from the inside. She’s still in the house."

"I know she’s in the house."

"Want me to check the—"

"You want to search my bed, Enzo?"

Dominic didn’t raise his voice. He didn't have to. The quiet carried enough venom to stop a man’s pulse.

Dead silence stretched between them. Under the sheets, my chest heaved so hard against the mattress I was sure the springs were giving me away.

"...No, sir."

"Boathouse next," Dominic said, cold and even. "Then tear through the kitchen. Get Gia out of bed if you need the pantry keys."

"On it, boss."

The latch clicked shut. Boots faded down the runner outside.

Dominic didn't shift an inch. Neither did I. His shoulder blade was pressed against my arm through the linen, rising and falling with that steady, maddening rhythm. Every time he pulled air, the sheet tightened over my ribs.

"Why did you do that?" My voice came out like gravel.

"Because if Enzo yanks you out of my crawlspace, it turns into a story." He turned his head just far enough for me to see the hard line of his jaw in the shadows. "Men talk. I don’t need my men talking about you."

"That's not an answer."

"It’s the only one you're getting."

He stood, walked to the nightstand, and clicked the small brass lamp on low. Amber light hit the sharp angles of his cheekbones. There was an ugly yellow bruise spreading under his left eye from Pier 9 four nights back. He still hadn't slept, not really. It made him look meaner.

He held out an open palm.

"Key."

"What key?"

"Mara."

I could’ve sworn on my life. I could’ve lied until my teeth broke. But he just stood over me, huge, broad-shouldered, totally unbothered, like he had all the time in the world and I was already out of moves.

I reached down my shirt, hooked two fingers into the lace of my cup, and pulled the brass key out.

His eyes didn't drop. Not to the exposed skin of my chest. Not to the lace. He kept his gaze locked dead on my eyes. It was worse than if he’d stared.

I slapped the key into his palm. His fingers closed over it, calloused and warm.

"Study door," he said, pocketing it. "You were heading for my desk."

"I was looking for Danny’s file."

"Danny’s paperwork isn't in this wing." He stepped in close. "Just me."

"Great. That makes me feel so much safer."

He turned to the dresser, poured two fingers of amber bourbon into a lowball glass, and came right back. When he sat down on the edge of the mattress this time, his thigh brushed mine through the quilt. He pointed the glass at my left hand.

"You're bleeding on my linen."

I looked. A dark red stain had spread across the white cotton sheet, big as a silver dollar.

"May I?" he asked.

There it was again. *May I.* He asked every single time he touched me, like he was pretending I had a say, like manners were the last law he hadn't broken.

"It’s a scratch."

"Then it won't hurt," he said smoothly. "May I?"

I shoved my bloody palm at him.

He tipped the glass. Cold bourbon splashed raw across the open gouge. Fire ripped up my arm. I gasped, jerking back, but his fingers snapped around my wrist like a vice. His thumb landed directly over my radial artery. He didn't even have to look to know my pulse was racing out of my skin.

"Breathe," he muttered.

"Don't tell me what to do with my lungs."

"Then stop choking on them."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a clean folded handkerchief, and ripped the edge with his teeth. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. He wound the linen tight over my palm, his thumbs brushing the sensitive inside of my wrist. He took his sweet time with the knot. His skin smelled like bourbon, smoke, and cedar, and the whole right side of my body was buzzing from how close he was leaning.

"I earned a rule," I said, desperate to fill the space between us. "I broke the code on page one. You swore: one page, one rule."

"I did."

"Then I pick the west wing. Take the lock off my door."

"No."

"You gave your word, Dominic."

"And I'm breaking it." He finished the knot, but his hand didn't move away. His knuckles rested against my bare knee over the sheet, heavy and hot. "You can keep the counting room lit all night. You can sit in the library until sunrise. You don't get the west wing. Not when Victor’s crew can drop onto that terrace from the tree line."

My breath hitched. "Victor’s crew?"

"Enzo found a cut sensor on the north fence at dawn." His voice stayed completely level, like he was reading off the morning stock tickers. "That's why he's tearing the house apart. That's why I'm sitting here."

"You didn't look calm when you pulled that wall panel."

A low rasp caught in his throat—half a breath, almost an actual laugh. The sound did something reckless to my stomach.

"Enzo checks your empty room again in eight minutes," he said, looking at the door. "Then the back stairs, then my hallway. You can't walk back to your bed without him putting two and two together."

"So what? I sleep on your floor?"

"You sleep in my bed. I take the armchair."

"You won't sleep."

"I don't sleep anyway." He reached back to the chair behind him and snagged a black silk tie from the armrest. The dark fabric pooled between his knuckles, smooth and heavy. "Which means I need collateral."

My throat went tight. "No way."

"You haven't heard the terms."

"I'm looking at the tie, Dominic."

It slipped out—his actual name. No title. No bite. Just his name.

His hand paused. His dark eyes flicked up, pinning me in place.

"If you run again tonight, Mara, I have to chase you. Enzo hears the noise, Enzo pulls his weapon, and then it’s out of my hands. Then somebody who doesn't give a damn about your smart mouth gets to decide how Danny pays off his debt." He leaned forward, broad shoulders blotting out the lamplight. "I'm asking. Put your hands out. Or tell me no, and I'll lock that door and sit in this chair with my eyes on you until dawn."

Two choices. Both ended with him running the room.

Every survival instinct I had told me to tell him to go to hell. To throw the whiskey in his face. To fight my way back down the hall.

Instead, my hands lifted off the mattress.

He caught both my wrists in one wide palm. Gentle. Like I was made of glass he couldn't afford to crack. The silk slid cold and slick over my thumping pulse, looping once, twice, binding my wrists together before he tied the tail to the heavy iron rail of the headboard.

He pulled it taut. Then tested the knot.

I pulled back just enough to feel the give. It wasn't tight. One good yank and I could slip through it in two seconds.

He knew it. I knew it.

Dominic didn't step back. He braced one hand flat on the mattress right beside my hip, leaning down until his mouth hovered an inch from my temple. The rough gravel of his voice shook straight down my spine.

"Stay right here tonight," he whispered against my skin. "Where I can reach you."

His thumb smoothed across the bare curve of my inner wrist, resting heavy over the pulse beat beneath the silk.

And I didn't pull away.