Chapter 88 

The dining room was dimly lit, candles flickering across the long mahogany table like something out of a painting. Two plates were set silver covers gleaming, wine already poured. 

Dominic stood at the head of the table in a crisp black shirt, sleeves rolled, the top buttons open just enough to remind me how infuriatingly good he looked even when he was the villain. 

When he saw me enter, something softened in his face. 

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he said. 

“I considered skipping.” I replied bluntly. 

He pulled the chair out for me. “I’m glad you didn’t.” 

I hesitated before sitting. 

He moved back to his own chair, lowering himself with practiced ease. “I had the kitchen make something simple. You haven’t been eating.” 

“Maybe because I’ve been trapped in a glass cage.” 

He didn’t react. Just lifted the cover off my plate. Grilled salmon. Roasted potatoes. Steamed vegetables. 

It smelled… annoyingly good. 

We ate in silence at first. Or rather–I picked at my food while Dominic watched me like he didn’t know whether to speak or 

wait. 

Eventually, he broke first. 

“I hurt you.” 

I looked up slowly. “You’re saying that a lot lately.” 

“Because it’s true.” 

“And because you think saying it is enough?” 

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not. I know that.” 

I stared at him, trying to read between the lines. 

“You scare me sometimes,” I said. “Not because you’re dangerous. But because you make me forget I should be afraid.” 

His grip on his fork tightened slightly. 

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Aria. I want you to trust me again.” 

I scoffed softly. “Trust doesn’t grow back just because you gift–wrapped shoes and whispered apologies.” 

He leaned forward. “Then what do I do? Tell me.” 

“Let me breathe,” I said quietly. “Let me make choices. Stop hovering like I’ll shatter. Stop pretending I’m not a prisoner here.” 

“I’m not pretending,” he said. “I know exactly what I’m doing. And I know it’s wrong.” 

I blinked. 

That was… unexpectedly honest. 

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “But the thought of losing you makes me–fuck–I don’t even know what it makes me. I’m not used to this. To caring.” 

“Then maybe stop trying to control everything you care about,” I whispered. “You’re strangling it. You’re strangling me.” 

He looked at me, eyes tired. “Do you want to leave?” 

My breath caught. 

What did that mean? 

He saw my hesitation and gave a sad smile. “You don’t even know anymore, do you?” 

“No,” I admitted. 

He pushed back slightly from the table and leaned on one arm. “Stay for tonight. No guards outside your roo watching you. Just… stay.” 

I narrowed my eyes. “Why?” 

one 

“Because I want to prove I’m not just the man you’re scared of,” he said. “I want to prove that, given a choice… you’ll still come back to me.” 

I didn’t answer. 

1/3 

Chapter 88 

I didn’t leave either. 

Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the way his voice dropped at the end, low and rough, like there was gravel caught in it. Maybe it was because he said “choice” and looked like he meant it. 

So I stayed. 

We didn’t talk much after that. I kept pushing food around my plate until he finally reached over, took the fork from my fingers, and replaced it with a glass of wine. Something red. Heavy. It made my lips stain dark, and he watched them like they were the only thing in the room. 

The candlelight burned lower. The fire in the marble hearth cracked and whispered behind us, turning the corners of the room gold and shadow. 

And then it happened. It was small. You wouldn’t have noticed. It almost didn’t register in mind until I actually focused. 

Dominic slid his chair slightly closer. Just a few inches. Just enough to tuck his knee against mine under the table. 

I didn’t move. 

He let the silence breathe a little. He knew how to weaponize stillness. How to make it curl and pull, like tension in a wire. He didn’t reach for me. He didn’t speak. Just let that heat simmer between our legs until I shifted–barely–and my thigh brushed against his. 

That was permission. 

Not forgiveness. Not trust. But it was something. 

His hand moved, quiet, confident, vanishing under the long white tablecloth that fell like a veil between us and the room. 

My breath hitched. 

The brush of his fingers against my calf made me tense. I looked up sharply, but his face hadn’t changed–he was sipping his wine, eyes on me, calm as glass. 

He slid higher. Bare skin. My dress had fallen just enough when I sat, and now he was mapping the line of my thigh, slow and unhurried, like he had every right. 

“Dominic,” I said, voice hushed. 

“Yes?” 

He didn’t stop. 

“You said tonight wasn’t about-” 

“It’s not.” His voice was a murmur now. “This is just a reminder.” 

“Of what?” I whispered. 

He smiled without teeth. “That I still know how to touch you.” 

His hand slid higher. Under my dress. My thighs clenched involuntarily, but he was already there–his fingers parting me gently, the pads teasing heat and silk and wet. 

My lips parted. 

He found that soft, pulsing spot and began to circle it, just barely, just enough to make my hips shift an inch closer. “Aria,” he said quietly, still looking at me like we were just having wine and talking about the weather, “you’ve been acting like I’ve lost you.” 

His fingers pressed harder, and my nails curled into the edge of the table. 

“I haven’t.” 

I couldn’t speak. 

He leaned forward, close enough that his breath brushed my ear. “Let me prove it.” 

And then–he slid two fingers inside. 

I gasped, sharp and low, the sound swallowed by the clink of his wine glass as he picked it up again like nothing had changed. Like I wasn’t unraveling under the table in a mess of heat and want and hate. 

I bit down on my lip, hard. 

He fucked me slow with his fingers, deliberate, relentless. His palm ground against my clit with every curl, every press, and my knees were trembling under the weight of trying to keep still. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” I hissed. 

He raised a brow. “Like what?“

C 

Chapter 90 

He didn’t stop. Just smiled slightly, dark and satisfied. “Don’t. 17” 

I wanted to slap him I wanted to cry. I wanted to cum. 

Instead, I clenched around his fingers and fought not to make a sound. 

His thumb flicked up once, twice–and I nearly choked on my own breath. 

“Dominic,” I said again, but this time it was almost a moan. 

“Shh.” He leaned in and kissed the corner of my mouth, soft and obscene. “You’ll wake the house.” 

I hated how close I was. 

I hated how my body leaned into him even when my mind screamed run. 

I hated him. 

But I came on his fingers anyway. 

Silent. Shaking. Sinking my teeth into my fist to stay quiet while my legs locked and my thighs clenched and his hand never fucking stopped until I was twitching from oversensitivity. 

Only then did he pull back. Slow. Careful. 

He raised his hand under the table and brought his fingers to his lips, tasting me. Watching me. Like a threat and a promise wrapped into one. 

Then he stood and offered his hand. 

“Come upstairs with me.” He said simply. 

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