Page 29 of Hard Bargain

Always Dominic.

Standing in the center of it all with that impossible calm.

Knox should’ve been horrified. He should’ve run. Instead, he’d stood there and watched, breathing through the stench of blood and gunpowder.

He rolled onto his side, curling inward until his knees pressed tight against his chest. He pressed his fist hard against his mouth, like he could shove the memories back by force.

At the club, he’d tried to let the noise and music drown everything out. What disturbed him was how well it had almost worked. How much easier it had felt in their company, surrounded by Cassian’s relentless nonsense and Dominic’s presence looming nearby.

It made no sense. How could a man who’d just put a bullet in someone’s head make him feel steadier? The logic was broken; it was twisted and backwards. Yet lying here in the silence, he hated how much he missed it anyway.

Then, inevitably, his thoughts dragged him somewhere worse. The champagne room came back all at once—red velvet, the smell of perfume and expensive liquor. The soft weight of the dancer in his lap and the practiced ease of her touch.

None of that was what stuck, though. It was Dominic’s gaze, locked on him through all of it. He’d wanted to focus on the girl, to lose himself in sensation, to disappear into something mindless enough to drown out everything else clawing through him.

But every time he looked up, Dominic was there. Seeing far too much. He hated what that had done to him, how his body had responded. If he was honest—and the thought made his stomach turn—it hadn’t been the dancer who pushed him over the edge.

It had been Dominic.

He remembered the unbearable feeling of being stripped down under that gaze, like Dominic was peeling him apart layer by layer just to see how he’d break.

And when he finally came…

God.

It had hit him hard, heat tearing through him so fast he hadn’t even had time to think. There had been nothing to hold onto except Dominic’s stare. Even as his body shook and humiliation and pleasure tangled into something impossible to separate, he hadn’t been able to look away. It had felt like a confession, like giving something away he could never get back.

He turned his face into the pillow and bit down hard. As if summoned by the self-disgust, his father’s voice came roaring back: old and ugly and impossible to shake.

You see those boys on the street? The ones who walk funny? Disgusting. Don’t ever let anyone think you’re one of those little faggots. You hear me? No son of mine. You keep that kinda shit out of your head, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.

He pressed the heel of his hand hard over his eyes until stars burst behind them.

Breathe.

Just fucking breathe.

The memories and the shame wouldn’t fade. Everything in him felt exposed, raw, like some hidden, unforgivable part of him had been dragged into the light where anyone could see it.

This wasn’t who he was. It couldn’t be. He was the guy who worked double shifts and counted grocery money twice. The guy who knew how to survive, even if it meant grinding himself down to nothing.

Though if he was being honest, he’d never exactly been easy to manage, either. Teachers had figured that out early enough. He was smart—smart enough that people expected things from him—which only made it worse when he didn’t deliver. He got bored too easily, pushed too hard, mouthed off when he should’ve kept quiet, and had a talent for finding trouble.

He’d never been some golden kid, but there were still lines he hadn’t crossed. He didn’t run packages for criminals. He didn’t stand in rooms where men decided who lived and who died. And he sure as shit didn’t come apart while staring into another man’s eyes.

So why, even now, did his pulse still kick at the memory?

* * *

Quitting his job wasn’t a dramatic scene. He just handed over his keys, mumbled something vague about family stuff, and stood there awkwardly while the owner tried to talk him out of it. He declined as politely as he could, said thanks, and left before the conversation could turn into long goodbyes.

He took the bus, then walked for a while, not ready to go home and face what waited for him there. By the time he finally stopped moving, he’d been wandering long enough to lose track of where he was. He stared at his phone for a long time before texting Tara.

Me: You around?

She was. She somehow always was.

Ten minutes later, her beat-up Honda pulled to the curb. Knox slid into the passenger seat, and Tara took one look at him before pulling back into traffic. She didn’t ask why he needed rescuing, or why he was so quiet. She just drove, one hand on the wheel, music low, letting him stare out at the city sliding past.