Page 17 of Bound in Ruin

I find myself smiling faintly, keeping pace beside her.

"When he's pacing the top-floor balcony at midnight, leave him be," she continues, pointing up toward the grand staircase. "That means he's pulling apart a problem in his head. And whatever you do, don't throw him a noisy, chaotic dinner party. He hates crowded rooms when he eats. Give him peace, quiet, and a good steak, and he's satisfied."

She pauses beside a tall vintage grandfather clock in the hallway, covering her mouth as a giggle escapes her.

"What?" I ask, catching the sudden shift in her mood.

"I shouldn't tell you this," Helena chuckles, leaning in closer. "About two years ago, a copper pipe burst in the main kitchen. Instead of letting me call a professional plumber, Dominic decided he was going to fix it himself with a wrench and sheer arrogance. Ten minutes later, he came marching into the foyer completely soaked from head to toe, holding a broken pipe while three inches of water flooded the entire ground floor."

A sudden, sharp laugh bursts from my throat before I can stop it. "No way. Dominic flooded his own house?"

"Soaked to the bone!" Helena laughs, her shoulders shaking. "He stood right where you are standing now, completely dripping, and swore the pipe was defective!"

Standing there in the sunlit corridor, listening to her recount the image of a drenched, frustrated crime lord, the tight coil in my chest completely undoes itself, and I laugh until my stomach aches.

CHAPTER FIVE

DOMINIC

It has been a long, agonizing day.

Tracking down the rat line Harold bled out has been like hunting ghosts in a fog. My men managed to corner and grab Archibald—a messy, satisfying affair that ended with him begging on a cold concrete floor—but the rest of them have slithered into the shadows. They’ve gone undercover, scattering across the city's underbelly like roaches when the light hits.

A sharp, relentless irritation gnaws at the base of my neck. I’m prickly, antsy, and thoroughly pissed off.

I don’t let betrayals slide. Not ever. I don’t care if I have to burn down every safehouse, pay off every corrupt precinct, and dig up half the state—I will find every single one of them, and I will make them bleed.

I push through the front door of the master suite, my boots heavy against the floorboards, and march straight into the bedroom.

The lights are low, casting soft shadows across the massive space. Rosalia is lying on the bed, curled onto her side with her back facing the door. Her body is entirely still, her breath slow and deliberate.

I stop at the foot of the bed, my eyes tracking the subtle, rigid tension in her shoulders. She’s pretending to be asleep.

A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, cutting through the dark cloud of fury that’s been hanging over me all evening. I smother it before she can catch a glimpse of it, stripping off my blood-stained jacket and unbuttoning my shirt as I head straight for the bathroom, eager to wash the grime, dirt, and violence of the day off my skin.

I don’t spend a long time in the shower. I’m exhausted, and I need whatever sleep I can get before the long day waiting for us tomorrow.

I dry off, hang the towel, and step out of the bathroom completely naked. I don’t look in Rosalia's direction; she can keep pretending she’s asleep for all I care.

I walk over to the dresser to grab a pair of briefs. As I dig through the drawer, I suddenly feel the heavy weight of eyes on me.

She’s watching.

I don’t even need to turn around to know it. Blood immediately rushes between my legs, a sudden, fierce heat taking over. I bite down hard on my lower lip, using the sharp sting of pain to try and smother the surge, but my body refuses to cooperate. My cock swells half-erect, stubborn and unyielding, and there isn't a damn thing I can do about it.

It’s all her fault.

I turn around slowly, and sure enough, I catch her dead in the act. Her dark eyes are fixed on me, wide and unblinking.

A slow smirk pulls at my lips. "How about you take a picture? It’ll last longer."

Rosalia gasps, a brilliant, pretty, pink flush instantly spreading across her cheeks and down her neck. She drags her gaze away, scrambling to sit up on the mattress, her expression shifting into pure, thorough annoyance.

"Put some clothes on!" she snaps, glaring at the opposite wall.

I scoff, chuckling softly as I lean my hip against the dresser. "If I put clothes on, what would you have left to look at, sweetheart?"

"You are arrogant, full of yourself, and entirely delusional," she snaps, her chin tilted high as she fixes her gaze firmly on the wall framing the balcony. "There is nothing about you I am interested in."