❧ BEAUTIFUL CRIME - TAMER ☙
"i fear the fall and where we'll land."
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TW: BLOOD.
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I heard the front door close with a loud thud a matter of minutes ago. My suspicions led me to believe that it was Dominic, but I couldn't be positive; I had no idea who had access to his house, and so it could be anyone.
Unsurely, I wrapped my hands around a gun as I descended the staircase, just in case. When I reached the bottom, my suspicions were confirmed to be correct.
"Dominic?" I whispered his name, my voice trembling with shock.
He stood before me in the kitchen, his shirt drenched from collar to hem in a scarlet shade of red. His face bore the marks of a brutal encounter, blood smeared across his cheek and a few cuts marring his skin. With one hand clutching his side, he winced in pain, his eyes locking onto mine.
"You can put the gun down, sweetheart," he said through gritted teeth, his voice strained yet playful.
My trembling hands clutched the gun I had raised in a moment of sheer panic. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. "Where... what happened to you?" I stammered, struggling to find the right words. "Are you shot?"
"Just a graze," he told me, as if it were no big deal.
I paced towards him, quickly placing the gun onto the counter without a second thought. Now that I was closer, I could see just how much blood was on Dominic's hands and on the rest of his body. "You need to go to a hospital!" I exclaimed.
He shook his head. "Can't. But it's late, you should sleep."
Sleep? While he bleeds out?
My eyes remained locked on his tattooed hands, his fingers struggling to undo his blood-stained shirt, seeking access to the wound that marred his skin.
"Hey, hey. Let me," I said, my voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions that swirled within me. I moved closer, my fingers gently but firmly removing his hands from the buttons of his shirt. Our eyes met for a painfully long moment, but he didn't protest.
I could almost feel his heart pulsing with a newfound adrenaline, just as mine was. The scent of his cologne and the warmth of his body surrounded me, intensifying every centimetre in the air between us. His shallow breaths brushed against my skin, making my own breath hitch as our closeness grew ever more yielding.
As the buttons became undone, I pushed the rest of his shirt from off of his shoulders. "This feels familiar," he murmured. "You just love undressing me, don't you?"
I glared at him, tossing the bloodied fabric onto the counter."Will you shut up?" My gaze shifted to the wound on his side, a pensive concern replacing my annoyance. It didn't seem too deep, but it was definitely wide, and it needed proper care.
"Okay, now—" I began, placing my hands over his. But he interrupted me, his voice laced with stubborn determination. "I can do this part myself."
"Stop refusing my help," I insisted firmly, my tone unwavering. "My hands are steadier than yours, so let me help."
He groaned in reluctant agreement, his gaze flickering to the ceiling for a moment before he relented. "There's a medical box in the far left cabinet," he instructed, his voice quieter but no less determined, "and whiskey over there."
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Dominic's fingers traced the cool, metallic surface of my gun, his sharp eyes taking in every groove and component. "This is yours?"
I brushed his question to the side for a moment, concentrated on the stitching job in front of me. This was only my second time tending to an injury like this— his injury, to be precise— and I was still scared I might hurt him or mess up.
"You don't seemed surprised," I remarked.
He tilted his head to the slightly slightly. "Everyone has to protective themselves somehow," he said, but then his eyebrows furrowed as he examined the function of the gun even closer. "Where'd you get this?"
"Why?"
"The serial numbers are scratched off."
Guns had serial numbers? "It came that way." I took it from out of his hands and set it on the counter firmly. "I bought it when I lived alone."
"And you know how to use it?" he asked curiously.
"Somewhat," I answered. But what was 'somewhat?'
His breath hitched as I deftly threaded the last of the stitches, a reaction that didn't go unnoticed. The sensation of his body responding to my touch caused him to stand up straighter, his posture betraying the intensity of the moment.
"Stay still," I cautioned, my hand resting firmer against his abdomen as I tightened the final stitch, determined to complete the task with precision.
A low, strained groan escaped his lips, and his words hung in the air like an unspoken promise. "If you come downstairs tomorrow, I can show you," he murmured, the offer lingering between us, a tantalizing possibility that beckoned.
"Downstairs?" I inquired, a trace of curiosity coloring my tone.
The first night of my arrival, I was very clearly informed that I wasn't allowed in Dominic's office, bedroom, or down into the basement. Now, he had willingly let me into the first two, and was now inviting me down into the third.
"In the morning," he clarified.
"Okay," I agreed, my voice hushed, almost reverent. I wasn't sure why I was being so awkward or quiet— actually, never mind, I did.
Dominic found amusement this, "Do you really get shy every time my shirt is off?" he teased, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Breathe, Violet.
"You have a nice upper body," I shrugged, offering in defensive and briefly glinting at him.
The corners of his mouth tugged upwards, creating a taunting smile. "And my lower?" he inquired with a seductive playfulness that sent a rush of heat through me.
Definitely nice too.
I could feel my cheeks flush with color as I averted my gaze, the air around us thickening. My fingers moved of their own accord to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, an unconscious gesture to conceal the nervous anticipation that coursed through my veins.
"No need to be embarrassed, Red."
I ignored his comment and snipped the last of the stitching thread with a pair of scissors. "Done."
"Thank you," he said, his fingers gripping the edge of the counter so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "You did a good job."
A heavy silence hung between us, punctuated by the rhythmic winds outside. I couldn't help but feel a mounting frustration with the lack of openness. "If I hadn't come down," I ventured cautiously, "would you have ever told me about this?"
His gaze shifted, and he hesitated before answering, "No."
"Why?"
He turned to face me, his expression guarded. "Because it doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters. Are you kidding?" I countered firmly, my voice betraying my frustration.
"I was trying to protect you—"
"From what? The fact that you could've been killed tonight without even telling me where you were going?"
"I didn't—"
"I don't want to hear it." I snapped. "If you're leaving for a week, tell me. If you're leaving for the day, tell me. If you're leaving for an hour, tell me. I don't care if we're fighting, or if we can't stand each other, you have to tell me."
"Why?" He demanded, his voice only slightly raised, but his tone was almost desperate.
If tonight has taught me anything, it was that, one, pursuing a career in medicine probably wouldn't been the worst idea, and two..
"Because I care about you too, asshole!"
I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead as an attempt to hide my face from him, because if he saw me as I was right now— vulnerable and unshielded— we would both do or say something we regretted.
My throat felt dry as I inhaled, and I knew that the only decent thing I could do would be to remove myself from the situation. And so I turned on my heel, my hands shaking with an unexplainable reason, but Dominic caught my wrist, just as he always did.
"Don't," he warned as he turned me around to face him. "Don't leave. Don't be like me."
He cupped my face with both of his hands, forcing me to look him in the eyes; but I couldn't. I was staring at everything but him. The ground, the ceiling, the counter, his throat.
My whole body was shaking now too— and fuck, I didn't even know why.
"Hey, look at me," he said softly, and with a deep breath, I did, and I knew I felt something that I should it have been feeling.
When I kissed him out of nowhere, I was trying to see if there might have been something more to just the lust and the desire between us, and if I'm being honest, I wasn't one hundred percent sure what there was.
But deep down I knew it wouldn't matter, because he couldn't possibly—
"I felt it."
"What?" I muttered in disbelief to his words.
"The kiss— I felt it," he repeated, his breath warm against my lips. "And whatever you're feeling now, I feel it." He leaned in closer, his lips just inches from mine. "I feel it."
Time seemed to stand still as our faces drew closer, the anticipation of what might happen next almost unbearable, but I knew if I allowed myself to be with him, with my feelings on display, it would just make everything so deeply complicated.
Whatever I felt wasn't supposed to be happening. Whatever he felt wasn't supposed to be happening. Whatever we felt wasn't supposed to be happening.
None of this was supposed to be happening.
"I can't..." I began, my voice faltering as emotions welled up within me. "I-I'm sorry," I whispered, feeling the weight of my own conflicting emotions as they intertwined with his in the quiet.
My steps faded away, because this time, I was the one to leave.
His crimson colour was still on my hands as I wiped away the fallen tears, an overwhelming feeling exploding in my chest.
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see you next sunday!
words (2000)