And now, with nothing left to do, I’m pacing. Wondering if there’s a way out of this.
I spin around and pace back across the room when a sound stops me.
Was that the front door?
I tiptoe toward the bedroom door and lean into the opening to listen.
Footsteps.
All I hear are footsteps echoing through that giant-ass main room. But how the hell am I supposed to know if it’s Dom or someone else?
While you’re here, you’re safe.
I back away from the door.
The footsteps are on the stairs.
It has to be him.
I keep backing up, around the foot of the bed and over to the side I slept on last night.
Torn between looking for a weapon and faking sleep, I’m standing there, frozen, when Dominic appears in the doorway.
He stops when he spots me, and I let out a rough exhale.
“You scared me,” I accuse.
He grins. “That mean you’re happy to see me?”
I narrow my eyes. “I was worried it might be an axe murderer. So, sure, I’m glad it’s you instead.”
“Next time I’ll…” Dom trails off, and I follow his line of sight to my chest. “Hmm, I like that.”
I pluck at the fabric. “You like me covered in your baggy clothes?”
“I like you covered in my alma mater.”
My eyes widen, and I look back down at the sweatshirt. “You went to Yale?”
He stalks around the bed toward me. “Yeah, all the good schools were full.”
“I figured you stole it.” I shuffle a step back. “I didn’t know Ivy League offered gangster studies.”
Dom barks out a laugh, and I hate it. Because I wish he did it more often. “Dammit, Valentine, I like you.”
“I—Well… I don’t like you.” The heat of my words is lessened by my hurried climb onto the bed. The only form of escape left to me.
His chuckle lets me know my barb didn’t hit. “You liked me once. You will again.”
I huff and drag the blankets up to my chin. “Your side of the bed is over there.” I nod my head in the other direction.
He sits on the mattress next to my hip. “Give me your finger.”
I hold up my middle finger.
“Cute.”
I keep my left hand under the blanket. “Why? You gonna try to fill in the millimeter of blank skin you left?”
Dom holds up a small jar I hadn’t noticed in his grip.
Only the dim ceiling lights are on, but I recognize the white jar and blue lid. Since I’ve always been fascinated by tattoos, I’ve looked up all the prep and aftercare. And I believe that’s an ointment used to keep your tattoo looking nice.
Not willing to let go of my defiance, even flat on my back, I keep my hand where it is. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but this tattoo isn’t exactly something I want. So keeping it pretty isn’t really a high priority.”
“Two things.”
“It’s always two things with you,” I mutter.
Dominic looks like he’s trying not to smile, but he fails. “Two things,” he repeats. “One, what’s worse? Having a tattoo you don’t want, or having a tattoo you don’t want that also looks bad?” I don’t give him an answer. “And two, I bet that dainty little finger of yours is sore. This will help.” He shakes the jar.
“My fingers aren’t dainty.” I’m grumbling. I know I’m grumbling because I hate that he has a point.
He lifts a dark brow. “Have you already forgotten about that time we put our hands palm to palm? Your fingers are extremely dainty compared to mine.”
He’s talking about our first plane ride.
Because I don’t want to discuss that, and because my finger does hurt, and because—fine, he’s right—I don’t want the tattoo to heal poorly and look even more dumb than it already does, I pull my hand out from under the blanket.
“I’m still mad,” I tell him.
“I know.”
“This wasn’t okay, Dom.”
His eyes narrow the slightest bit, but he doesn’t reply as he unscrews the lid and swipes his fingertips across the surface of the substance.
“I can do it.” My jaw clenches. I don’t want him taking care of me.
Dom sets the jar on the nightstand. “I’m doing it.”
“No,” I start, but his hand darts out and grips my wrist, dragging my hand closer to him.
“Dominic, knock it off!” I try to shove him away with my right hand, but he’s immovable.