Chapter 7 - A Debt of Flesh and Heart
The penthouse suite of the hotel was locked down within ninety seconds.
Dominic kicked the door shut, carrying Catherine directly into the luxurious marble bathroom. He set her gently on the edge of the large vanity, his hands moving with frantic, desperate speed.
“Dominic, stop,” Catherine gasped, wincing as the sting pulsed through her arm. “It’s just glass. It’s a laceration. It’s not arterial.”
Dominic wasn't listening. He had ripped off his bow tie, shredded his tuxedo jacket, and was tearing open the emergency medical kit on the counter. His breathing was ragged, his pupils dilated with pure, unadulterated terror.
“You took a bullet for me,” he whispered, his hands trembling as he soaked a clean cloth in antiseptic. “Again. You threw yourself in front of a rifle for me.”
“I tackled you, you idiot,” she said, trying to laugh, but the laughter died when she saw the look in his eyes.
Dominic Vale was crying.
A single, silent tear carved a path through the dust and blood on his cheek. He knelt on the cold marble floor between her thighs, looking up at her as if she were the only sacred thing left in a burning universe.
“I called you livestock,” he said, his voice breaking into a rough, jagged sob. “I humiliated you in front of this whole godforsaken city. And you bled for me. Twice.”
Catherine looked down at him. The feared boss of Boston, on his knees on a bathroom floor, ruined, stripped bare of his arrogance, weeping into the fabric of her skirt.
She reached out with her uninjured hand, threading her fingers through his dark hair, pulling him gently upward.
“Dominic. Look at me.”
He raised his eyes.
“I didn't tackle you because you’re a mob boss,” she said softly, her thumb brushing the tear from his cheek. “I tackled you because beneath all the violence and the cold suits, there is a man worth saving. A man who caught me when I was falling. A man who defended me when no one else ever has.”
Dominic stood slowly. He didn't say a word.
With agonizing care, he cleaned the wound on her arm, his large, rough hands touching her skin as if she were made of spun sugar. He applied sterile butterfly bandages, closing the cut with gentle, reverent precision.
When he was done, he didn't step back.
He reached for the zipper of her torn emerald gown. Catherine held her breath, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.
Slowly, carefully, Dominic slid the silk off her shoulders. The dress pooled around her feet, leaving her standing in her simple lace lingerie.
For thirty-one years, Catherine had lived under the shame of being unseen or mocked. She had hidden her stomach, covered her thighs, and dressed to make herself invisible.
Dominic looked at her as if he had just discovered gold in a barren wasteland.
His hands came to rest on the curve of her hips. His touch was electric, hot, and so heavy with longing that Catherine shivered.
“You are perfection,” Dominic whispered, his voice thick with raw devotion.
He leaned down, pressing his lips to the soft curve of her hip, then to the swell of her stomach, kissing the stretch marks that marked her skin like silver filigree. He moved upward, kissing her ribs, her collarbones, and finally claiming her mouth in a kiss that was deep, desperate, and filled with a hunger that had been starving for a lifetime.
Catherine surrendered. She buried her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, letting the solid, broad weight of his body press against hers. In his arms, she wasn't too much; she was everything.
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That night, on the high sheets of the penthouse bed, Dominic loved her with a slow, worshipful intensity that erased every cruel word, every mocking whisper, and every tear she had ever cried. He kissed every inch of her body, proving with his lips and his breath what words could never fully repair: that she was desired, that she was cherished, and that she belonged to no one but herself—and the man who would die for her.
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