Page 19 of Redline
Dark.
I didn't let him recover. I reached up and yanked it again.
Light.
“You should be careful,” he said, his voice a low vibration that I felt in my own chest. “You keep turning the lights on and you’re going to think you see something that isn’t there.”
Dark.
The pitch-black was thick, pressing us together. I didn't answer right away. The erratic pulse in my chest was louder now, a frantic feedback loop that made my skin feel too tight.
Instead, I leaned in, guided by the pull of him, until my breath feathered against the column of his throat. “I see plenty, Dominic. Mostly a guy who hates losing, but hates wanting even more.”
I pulled.
The bulb didn't just flicker; it exploded into the small space, harsh and yellow. The smirk was already on my face, ready to catch his reaction, but it died before I could even draw a breath.
We were too close. My chest was a hair’s breadth from his. I could see the gold flecks in his eyes and the way his pulse thundered in the base of his throat. My internal sensors were screaming a warning I didn't know how to shut off.
Neither of us moved. The air in the closet didn't just feel thin; it felt like it was ionizing, charging the space between us until it burned.
Then, Dominic’s face went flat. The moment cracked apart, replaced by a precisely controlled expression that made me feel like a smudge on a lens he was about to wipe away. He didn't back up. He leaned in further, his body hemming me in against the door.
“You’re right,” he said, his voice level and stripped of everything but ice. “I do hate losing. Which is why I’m ending this before you get it into your head that you’re actually a player.”
He reached into his pocket, his movements sharp. He didn't offer the money; he held it out like he was disposing of evidence. A thick, folded stack of hundreds.
“It’s the winnings,” he said. The words were a slap. “From the race the other night. Take it.”
I looked at the cash, then back at his face. For a heartbeat, the air in my lungs was still warm, the dizzying scent of him still clouding my judgment. I blinked, my mind trying to reconcile the guy whose pulse I’d just felt against my own with him now holding a bribe like a weapon.
The charged air between us didn’t fade; it died.
I felt the shift in my own expression—the way my features flattened, the softness around my mouth tightening into a thin, familiar line of defense. This was the Dominic Valerio I knew. This was the man who didn't see people, only liabilities and price tags.
The confusion didn't just vanish; it was buried under a landslide of absolute certainty.
“The winnings?” I asked. My voice was steady now, the frantic rhythm of a moment ago replaced by a low, dangerous hum.“You mean the race you barely won because you nearly killed us both trying to outrun me?”
“Take it,” he snapped.
“No.”
“Take it,” he repeated. He stepped into my space, the folded bills crushed between the center of my chest and the flat of his palm, pinning me against the door. “I want you to stay away from Luka. If you need a payout to make you disappear, here it is. Take the money and find a different family to haunt.”
I stilled, the edges of the bills digging into my skin through my shirt. “So that’s what this is? A payout to keep the trash away from your brother?”
“My brother doesn’t understand what using someone looks like,” he said, his gaze dropping to the money he was pressing against me. “You do. You know exactly what your time is worth.”
I shoved his hand back, the cash fluttering between us before I slammed it against his own chest. He didn't even flinch.
“And here I thought you’d hit your limit when you suggested I was sleeping with your father,” I said, my voice shaking with a rage that was finally starting to boil over. “Turns out you were just warming up.”
His nostrils flared. His voice dipped, razor-clean and devoid of any warmth. “If you insist on trading your company for proximity to power, at least pick a person who isn’t older than the engines he’s paid for his son to drive.”
A humorless smile curved my mouth. “Ah. There it is. Pity with a side of savior complex.”
“It isn't pity.”
