ONE SIXTY
The dim light carved sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the brutal handsomeness that had always belonged to him, the kind that wasn’t just attractive—it was arresting. Masculine in a way that wasn’t soft or pretty but rugged, hardened, like something carved from stone and left to weather under storms. His features were defined in strong, unforgiving lines, the hard edge of his jaw, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the slight furrow of his dark brows casting shadows over his deep-set eyes. Those eyes… a rich, impenetrable green, like the depths of a forest right before a storm, a color that had always held me captive no matter how much time had passed.
But tonight, tonight, they looked different.
There was something hollow in them, something wrecked.
And still, despite the exhaustion that weighed on him, despite the tension that coiled in his muscles and the sheer weariness of the last twenty-four hours, he looked so damn good.
So utterly male. Like a man man. So powerful.
His broad shoulders slumped slightly, but even in his exhaustion, he carried himself with a presence that dominated the entire room. His arms, thick with muscle, flexed slightly as he twisted the gun in his hand, the veins running down his forearm shifting under his skin, corded with tension. The grip on the weapon was loose, almost careless, but there was nothing casual about the way he held it. It was effortless. Dangerous. Like the gun was an extension of him, like he could lift it, cock it, and put a bullet between someone’s eyes in less time than it took to blink.
And Jesus Christ, his hands.
Big, strong, rough. The kind of hands that had held me down before, gripped my thighs, wrapped around my throat. Calloused from fights, from gripping weapons, from years of survival, and yet, I knew the way they could be gentle. The way they had traced my body like I was something to be worshipped. The way they had owned me.
My throat went dry.
I had always known Dominic was handsome. But it wasn’t the kind of beauty that made you sigh dreamily, it was the kind that unraveled you. That hit you like a punch to the gut, left you breathless, left you thinking about it long after he was gone.
And now, seeing him like this, like this, it made something deep inside me clench.
The shirt borrowed from Gael, stretched taut across his chest, clinging to every ridge of muscle. The sleeves were slightly too short, revealing his strong, veined forearms, the hard slope of his biceps. His jeans sat low on his hips, worn and faded, like they had been through as much as he had. And his hair, normally neat, was slightly disheveled, dark strands falling into his face, making him look even more devastating.
But it was the exhaustion, the restraint, that made my stomach tighten.
He looked tired.
Not just physically, but bone-deep, soul-weary. The kind of exhaustion that came from carrying too much for too long. From having too much blood on your hands. From running, always running, never stopping, never resting.
And yet, despite all of it, he was still so damn powerful.
The kind of powerful that wasn’t just in the way he moved, but in the way he existed. In the way the room bent to his presence, in the way my body reacted to him.
I felt it, deep in my stomach, deep in my chest.
A slow, burning ache.
Because I didn’t just miss him.
I needed him.
God help me, but I needed him the way I needed air.
And yet, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if I should touch him, if he even wanted to be touched right now. I didn’t know if he needed comfort or if he needed space. But I wanted to touch him. Wanted to run my fingers through his hair, wanted to press my lips against his skin, wanted to whisper that it was okay, even though nothing was okay.
My breath shuddered as I reached out, hesitantly, fingers trembling slightly as I hovered them close to his face.
And then, he leaned into me.
A soft, quiet exhale left him, barely audible over the hum of silence that had settled between us. His eyes fluttered closed, his jaw slackening just a fraction as he pressed his cheek into my palm, as if he had been waiting for this—for me—all along.
And fuck.
The way my stomach clenched. The way heat pooled low in my abdomen.
Because Dominic was a strong man. A ruthless man. The kind of man who had built walls so high that nothing could touch him. But when he leaned into me like this, when he let himself be vulnerable, when he melted under my touch—God, it did something to me.
Something dark. Something primal.
Because I loved it.
Loved seeing a man this powerful, this undeniably masculine, break for me. Loved that I was the only one who got to see him like this, to touch him like this.
My fingers curled against his cheek, tracing the roughness of his stubble, feeling the warmth of his skin. He was hot to the touch, his body burning with something I didn’t know how to name. And up close, Christ, he smelled incredible—like soap and faint cigarette smoke, but underneath it, something purely him. Musk and heat, a scent I had memorized over the years, one that made my mouth dry and my pulse pound.
His breath hitched, barely, and his fingers flexed around the gun.
Tension curled tighter, thickening the air, pressing down on my chest, making it hard to think.
I swallowed, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Dom.”
Slowly, his eyes opened.
And fuck.
There it was.
Raw, devastating, wrecked.
A storm brewing behind his gaze, a hunger, a pain, an ache that mirrored my own.
And in that moment, I knew.
I knew he wanted me just as badly as I wanted him.
I knew he was fighting it.
And I knew we were both going to lose.
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