Page 50 of Sinner's Vows

As he straightens, the room seems to shrink to him and me. His gaze inches down to my chest, to where the little puff shoulders have slipped off what with the corset laces loosening with time, and then to my bare feet. I’ve long lost the flip-flops Portia gave me.

For the briefest seconds, his gaze captures mine, and my breathing stalls at the raw look in his eyes. It’s like he’s clawing back his anger, only being a protector for now. That moment earlier, when he told me where to look to see my effect on him, flashes in my mind’s eye, and I force myself not to drop my gaze to his cock but to keep staring back in his eyes, hating the slow blush heating my cheeks.

With a groan, he opens the double vanity’s cupboard and puts a packaged toothbrush out for me next to his toothpaste. He takes stock of everything else in there. I bet he’s assessing what I could use as a weapon, but I’m done. I’m completely defeated.

“Do you need help?” he asks as he turns back to me, his gaze landing on those two little corset bows that slipped loose.

“No.” It’s barely a whisper, but it sounds more like a question than a dismissal.

“Take your time,” he says.

And with that, he scoots past me, making sure we don’t touch, and leaves me standing alone in the middle of the bathroom, water rushing to fill the tub. He doesn’t close the door, and I wouldn’t dare do so either. It won’t help, and I can’t afford to mess with Dominic Scalera again.

I strip, quietly giving my thanks to the gods for allowing me the luxury of a bath—another thing I thought I’d never have again. I lower into the tub, and the warm water whirls around my tired body. I touch my bullet wound’s dressing, recalling the nurse saying it’s waterproof. Still, it won’t be a good idea to be in here for hours.

It’s quiet as I relax in the water, and I try to screw my emotions back in place and take control of my mind. Next door, Dominic is busy doing things, making noises of drawers opening and closing.

I don’t know what to do with this man. He doesn’t fit the usual profile of the Mafiosos I’ve dealt with all my life.

Any Mafioso whose gun got pick-pocketed would have beat me into submission, if not into the afterlife, and then some more. Physically proving who is in control all the way. Instead, he dared me to shoot him as if he has a death wish. Dared me to makea very pretty hole in his heart.

He is an outlier, and I’m out of my depth.

I soap up everywhere and rinse off the water, then stand. As I do, I look towards the bedroom door where Dominic is still busy. It’s quiet now—he’s listening to me, as I listen to him. I tug a bath towel off the heated railing, dry off with swift swipes over my body, and wrap it around my breasts. I reach for thetoothbrush and brush my teeth. He isn’t watching me, but I can feel his attention on me, dissecting every move to predict what I’m going to do next.

I’ve left the dress on the vanity, and as I’m done brushing my teeth, I reach for it. His voice comes from next door. Deep, masculine, but gentle.

“I have something here you can sleep in, Ariana.”

It isn’t a summons, but it isn’t as if he brought it over to me. I was naked in the bath, so…

It’s an invitation to come fetch it.

I pad out of the bathroom, and he is standing by the foot of the bed, looking at something on his phone, with clothes in his other hand.

When I come closer, overly conscious of his size and the fact I’m literally wrapped in a bath towel he can pluck off my body with one little tug, I blush. The stupid blush that speaks a thousand words. Hopefully, he’ll think it’s the heat of the bathwater.

“Here,” he says as he looks up. “At least it’s clean.”

“Thank you.” Now I don’t want to raise an arm to take the clothes, because what if this towel actually drops? I’ve twisted it tight, but I don’t trust anything right now. I chew my lip as I’m stalling, and in these few seconds, his gaze slides down my body, and I freeze up even more.

“Sweetheart,” he says with a sigh as he tosses his phone to the bed. “What’s it going to take for you to trust me? You’re like a deer in the headlights here. And that after—” He breaks off.

After I told him I got raped and have never recovered from it. Yes. I’ve been a deer in the headlights for twelve years when it comes to being physical with anybody.

“Will it help if I tell you I only have sex with women who have given me their written consent?” he says, staring into my eyes. “Like on paper, word for word what they want and don’t want,what they need from me, how I can best serve them, then signed in real ink, while they are completely mentally there? Not under duress? Not intoxicated? Not drugged? Not on a date? Heck, I don’t even do those.”

His words are slow to sink in. Written consent. Wants and needs. Ink. He must be into BDSM, and the mere idea sends a warm rush down my spine to my sex. I’ve always found everything around sex repulsive. But whenhesays things like that, it doesthisto me?

I’m still in a stupor when he shakes out the clothes he was holding and drops the one piece to the bed.

“Come on, you’re going to swim in it, but it’ll be comfortable.” He scrunches up a plain black T-shirt and has the neck over my head in one gentle swoop, then he guides my arms into the sleeves so tenderly, it’s as if he is dressing a sleeping child.

He tugs the T-shirt down, and it’s clean, smelling of laundry soap, but under that layer, there’s more. His scent has been trapped in the fabric or maybe it’s just me, homing in on everything about him with my new, sharpened sense of smell.

“I’m going to take off the towel, okay?” he says, and I nod, in a haze. The T-shirt is big enough to cover to my mid-thigh.

He has the towel by its edge, and with a gentle pull, it comes loose and puddles at my feet.

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