Page 34 of Dirty Hit
“And you’re still under me,” I say. “Checkmate.”
His fingers are still curled in my shirt, knuckles white. He hasn’t let go. I glance down at his hands, then back up to his face. He notices where I’m looking and immediately tries to yank them away, embarrassed. I don’t let him. I catch one of his wrists in my free hand, grip firm but not painful.
“Don’t hide,” I say quietly. “You already gave yourself away.”
He glares again, but there’s no heat behind it now—just lingering shock and a bone-deep confusion that makes my chest twist. He genuinely doesn’t know what to do with himself. No script covers this. There’s no youth group pamphlet for“what to do when you like it when the monster kisses you.”
“Why did you…” he starts, but the words fall apart halfway.
I don’t answer him, not with words. I let my hand slip from his throat to his shoulder, then down his arm, fingers tracingthe line of muscle through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. When I reach his wrist, I curl my hand around it, feeling the frantic flutter of his pulse there too. He watches me, dazed, suspicious, and wanting, all at once.
On my own wrist sits the leather cuff I’ve worn for years. It has a simple design showing overlapping dark leather worn soft over time, fastened with two small metal buckles. People think it’s a fashion thing, no one asks where it came from.
It started as a weight and a reminder. Over time, it became one more piece of armor; one more thing that’s just part of me.
The idea hits me with the same inevitability as the kiss.
Without breaking eye contact, I reach over with my free hand and undo the buckle.
I slide the cuff off and it leaves a faint band of lighter skin behind. My wrist feels weirdly naked without it, exposed in a way I don’t like. I shift my grip on Brendon’s arm so I’m holding him gently, his hand resting palm-up on the rumpled blanket.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice still rough from the kiss.
“Marking what’s mine,” I say.
His eyes widen again. “I’m not—”
“You are,” I cut in. “You just haven’t caught up to the reality yet.”
He tries to pull his hand back, but I tighten my fingers and with my other hand, I wrap the leather around his wrist. It looks darker against his skin, the strap snug but not tight, overlapping just so. My fingers move with familiar ease as I fasten the buckles on the underside, turning his hand slightly so I can secure it.
He watches the whole thing like he’s seeing some kind of binding spell in motion.
“Dom…” he whispers, and there’s something raw in the way he says my name like that for the first time. Not Dominic. NotMr. Volkov under his breath in faculty hallways.Dom—short, intimate, and so fucking dangerous.
I press my thumb against the leather to make sure it’s secure, then I let go. The cuff sits snug against his skin, the leather warmed by my body and already picking up his heat.
Brendon looks up at me, confusion and panic flickering in his eyes. “Why are you putting this on me?”
I shrug, going for nonchalant. “Because you’re mine now too, and I like my shit where I can see it.”
His breath catches. “I’m not a thing, Dominic.”
“You’re not a thing to me, Little Sin, you’re a choice,” I say. “You’re also my pretty little toy, and I don’t share my choices, or my fucking toys.”
“I’m not wearing this,” he snaps, panic bleeding into anger. “People are gonna see—”
“No one’s gonna look at your wrist and think anything except ‘nice bracelet,’” I cut in. “You’re the only one who’s gonna feel what it means.”
He shakes his head. “My dad…”
“Your dad doesn’t go here,” I say. “And even if he did, he’s not going to notice a piece of leather on your wrist while he’s too busy worrying about your soul.”
His jaw clenches. “You’re mocking him again.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He deserves it.”
He glances down at the cuff again, flexing his fingers. I don’t like how my wrist feels without it, but I like it on him more.
