Page 62 of Bound in Ruin

"Which means we need to lock down every entry point," Keane states. "We double the patrols along the north fence, rotate the shift schedules every four hours so no one gets comfortable, and put a permanent two-man detail outside her bedroom door."

"Make it four," I correct sharply. "And I want custom armored glass installed on the master suite windows by tomorrow afternoon."

We spend the next twenty minutes tightening our security grid, patching every conceivable vulnerability until the estate is turned into an airtight, impenetrable fortress.

When we finally finish laying out the new protocols, Keane steps back, leaning against the edge of the desk. He studies my face for a long, quiet moment, a subtle, knowing glint entering his eyes.

"You're really going out of your way for this," Keane says quietly, shaking his head with a faint smile. "You're in love with her, Dominic."

The words hit the room like a sudden lightning strike.

I freeze, my head snapping toward him, my dark gaze locking onto his with enough heat to freeze a man's blood. "Shut the fuck up, Keane, and get to work."

Keane lets out a rich, hearty laugh, entirely unbothered by my death glare as he holds his hands up in mock surrender and turns toward the door. "Right away, boss. Right away."

Chuckling to himself, Keane slips out of the study, leaving me alone in the echoing silence of the room.

I spend the next ten minutes nursing another glass of scotch, letting the amber burn settle the last lingering traces of adrenaline until I'm certain I'm calm enough to face her.

Satisfied that the edge has dialed back, I set the glass down and walk out of the study.

As I turn the corner into the main hallway, I run straight into Helena. She’s cradling Yapper in her arms, and to my immense relief, the little dog is already back to his usual, chirpy self, his tail thumping ferociously against her forearm the moment he spots me.

"How is he?" I ask, stepping closer and reaching out to gently scratch the soft spot behind his ears.

"The vet just finished looking him over," Helena replies with a warm, relieved smile. "No broken ribs, just a minor bruise. He’s a tough little fighter, this one. I’m taking him downstairs to the kitchen for some dinner and then off to bed so Rosalia can get a full night's rest."

I look down at the small dog who fearlessly took a boot for my wife tonight. I lean in, pressing a brief, firm kiss to the top of Yapper's head. "Good boy," I murmur softly. "I'll make sure you get a massive steak tomorrow."

Helena lets out a quiet, fond laugh, shaking her head as she adjusts her hold on him. "He'll hold you to that, Dominic. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Helena."

I watch her carry him down the corridor until they disappear around the staircase, leaving the quiet hallway bathed in the warm, ambient glow of the wall sconces.

I turn back toward our door, take one slow, grounding breath, and push open the entrance to the master suite. I step into the bedroom, pushing the door shut quietly behind me.

Rosalia is sitting on the edge of the bed in a soft, oversized shirt. She looks up as I approach, her dark eyes reflecting the warm lamplight. The room is quiet, heavy with the lingering echo of everything that happened tonight.

Without saying a word, I cross the space between us and sink down onto my knees right in front of her.

"Dominic..." she whispers softly.

"Let me look," I say quietly, my voice raw as I reach up. My hands are steady now as I carefully gather the hem of her shirt, raising it just enough to expose the white bandage covering her ribs.

I gently peel back the edge of the dressing. The knife wound is clean and shallow—Helena was right—but right below her breast, where the blade grazed her, the skin is inflamed. Surrounding it, dark purple bruising is already blooming across her pale ribs.

My heart constricts painfully in my chest. My thumbs gently trace the uninjured skin around the bruise, my touch as light as feather, making sure there are no deep fractures beneath the surface.

The pads of my fingers graze her other scars. Rosalia tenses slightly under my hands, her breath hitching, but she doesn't pull away. She lets me touch her, letting me examine every mark, every shadow, every single line written into her skin.

I look up, my dark gaze locking onto hers, holding her steady.

"Don't ever hide your scars from me, Rosalia," I say, my voice dropping into a deep, intense rumble. "Never again. I know who put them there. I know what Luciano did to you. And if that bastard wasn't already burning in hell, I would tear him apart and kill him all over again with my bare hands."

A soft, breathless sound escapes her lips—a quiet laugh that dissolves the sharp edge of the room.

Before I can say another word, Rosalia leans down, cupping my jaw with her small, warm hands, and presses her lips to mine.