Chapter 1
960 Words
I wasn’t supposed to see him again.
Dominic Shaw was a ghost from my childhood. A man carved from steel and silence, always standing just behind my father like some kind of shadow. He disappeared before I turned sixteen — left without a word, without a trace. And no one said why.
But now he’s here.
Sitting in my kitchen like he owns the place.
And I’m standing in the hallway, barefoot in an oversized t-shirt that barely covers my thighs, trying not to let my jaw fall open.
“Brie,” my father calls out. “You’re up early.”
I force my feet forward, pulse hammering in my throat. “I didn’t know we had company.”
Dominic turns.
It’s worse than I remember.
Better.
He’s older now. Rougher. That beard wasn’t there before — trimmed tight along his jaw, streaked with silver. His black shirt stretches across a broad chest, sleeves rolled to the elbow, thick wrists flexing as he nurses a mug of black coffee like it’s his only tether to this world.
He doesn’t smile. He just watches me.
And I feel it.
That stare.
All the heat in the world poured into a single glance, unreadable and dark. I swear it lands on my legs, then crawls up to my hips, before he drags it back to my face.
I shift my weight. Tug the hem of my shirt.
“Didn’t mean to intrude,” I murmur.
“You live here,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel. “I’m the one intruding.”
God.
I hate that his voice hits somewhere low in my stomach. I hate that my skin tingles just from hearing it.
“Dominic just got back from overseas,” Dad says, oblivious. “Thought we’d catch up. Like old times.”
“Right,” I say, trying to smile. “Old times.”
Like when he carried me on his shoulders when I was five.
Or taught me how to punch a guy in the throat when I was ten.
Or looked at me one summer afternoon when I was fourteen, after I came downstairs in a swimsuit — and turned away so fast it burned.
He saw me that day.
He doesn’t see me now. He studies me.
And suddenly I’m very aware of my bare legs and the tight pull of my n*****s against thin cotton. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and retreat, perching on the edge of the stool opposite him.
“What’s it been?” I ask. “Ten years?”
“Seven,” Dominic says. “Almost eight.”
Right. Like he’s been counting.
My father chuckles. “Man disappears, then shows up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing.”
Dominic’s jaw ticks. “Didn’t want to bother anyone.”
“But you’re staying for a while,” I ask, careful with my tone. Curious, not eager. Not desperate.
“Just a few days,” he says. “Business in the city. Your dad offered a bed.”
Of course he did.
I take a slow sip of water, keeping my eyes on him over the rim of the bottle. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans back in his chair and watches me like a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve.
“You look different,” I say.
“You look the same,” he replies.
A pause.
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s not a compliment.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
Jesus. That voice. That attitude.
I want to scratch it out of him. Or climb into his lap and make him say my name.
“Okay, well,” my dad says, clearing his throat. “I’ve got to head to the gym. You two behave.”
He grabs his keys and walks out like it’s nothing. Like he hasn’t just left a match and gasoline in the same room.
The silence wraps around us like smoke. Thick. Hot.
I don’t look at Dominic. I feel him.
Finally, he speaks. “You shouldn’t walk around dressed like that.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
I laugh. “This is my house.”
He sets his mug down hard enough to make the table jump.
“Your dad’s house,” he says. “And you’re not a kid anymore, Brie. You know damn well what you look like.”
I should be offended.
I should throw my water in his face and storm off like the brat he clearly thinks I am.
Instead, I lean forward, elbows on the counter, and meet his eyes full-on.
“So do you.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.
The tension stretches so tight I swear I can hear it.
“You’ve grown up,” he says after a beat.
“Was that hard to notice before or… just inconvenient?”
He stands. Slowly. Like a wolf circling prey. And I hate how breathless I feel when he walks around the kitchen island, stopping just short of touching me.
“I don’t know what kind of games you’re playing,” he says, low and dangerous. “But you’re going to lose.”
I tilt my head. “What if I want to?”
He blinks. Once. Twice.
Then he’s gone. Moving past me and disappearing into the hallway like he didn’t just threaten to snap the last piece of sanity holding me together.
But I know something now.
I saw it in his eyes.
Dominic Shaw wants me.
And he hates himself for it.
Good.
Let him hate it.
Because I’m not a little girl anymore.
And I never learned how to stay away from things I shouldn’t touch.
- Writer
