CRIMSON VOWS

Chapter 20

Aira slammed the bathroom door open and stepped back into the bedroom. She was drowning in an oversized black shirt—his shirt, ironically, which she had snatched from his duffel in a panic—and glared at the bed with absolute venom.

Dominic was lounging shirtless across her duvet, casually flipping through one of her college textbooks as if he owned the room, the house, and every piece of paper in it.

"Get. Off. My. Bed," she commanded, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

He glanced up over the top of the book, a lazy, arrogant smirk curving his lips. "Our bed, wife."

Aira marched forward, grabbed the edge of the heavy comforter, and yanked it off the bed, tossing it straight at his head. "Floor. Now."

Dominic caught the blanket effortlessly, mocking offense. "You want your lawfully wedded husband to sleep on the hard floor? That’s emotional abuse, Mrs. Moretti."

"Call the cops, then," she hissed, her eyes flashing. "Oh wait... they’re all terrified of you."

He chuckled lowly, setting the book aside and rising to his feet in one fluid motion. His broad chest was heavily inked, dark tattoos coiling down his shoulders and arms, each line of dark ink telling a story of violence, power, and danger.

"Fine," he muttered, dragging her spare pillow down to the floor beside the mattress. "But don’t come crying to me when your guilty conscience freezes you to death tonight."

Aira ignored him, crawling under the remaining sheet and turning her back to him, staring stubbornly at the wall.

The lights clicked off.

A thick, dangerous silence settled over the room.

She couldn't sleep.

Every quiet, steady breath he took on the floor seemed to echo against the walls. She could feel his presence hovering just inches away from the edge of her mattress. The sheer power he held in total silence was maddening.

"You’re still awake," he murmured softly into the pitch blackness.

Aira kept her eyes shut, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"You’re wondering if I’m going to crawl into bed with you."

Still, she said nothing, her body rigid under the sheet.

"Don’t worry," his voice dropped lower, rough and intimate in the dark. "I won’t. Not until you beg me to."

Her throat dried up instantly. "I’d rather die."

"You say that now," he whispered, his tone sliding over her skin like warm velvet and sin. "But I see the way your body flinches when I talk to you. The way your breath catches whenever I look at your mouth."

"Shut up, Dominic."

"I crave you, Aira. Every single night. Every minute of the day. And the only thing stopping me right now is that fierce little fire in your eyes... because I want it to burn for me, not against me."

Aira clenched her knuckles tighter around the fabric of her blanket. "Go to hell."

"I’ll drag you down there with me," he whispered back, the wicked grin evident in his tone.

The small ceiling fan hummed rhythmically overhead. Aira’s chest rose and fell in slow, restless half-sleep.

Then—a faint wood creak beside the frame.

Her eyes shot open instantly.

Dominic was standing right beside her bed, towering over her in the shadows, staring down at her with unblinking intensity.

She scrambled backward against the headboard, pulling the sheet up to her collarbone. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"I had a nightmare," he said dryly, his dark eyes gleaming in the moonlight. "About you kissing someone else."

"You’re completely insane."

"Married to me, sweetheart. That means you’re legally trapped with the crazy."

He leaned down, placing one palm flat against the headboard beside her face, trapping her in his shadow.

"You can hate me all you want," he whispered, his eyes locked onto her trembling lips. "But this marriage... it’s real. And you? You’re mine. Even in hate, you belong to me."

He didn’t touch her skin. He didn't have to. He simply stood there—taunting her, controlling the air in the room like a predator circling its cornered prey.

Aira sat breathless in the dark, her heart hammering so wildly against her ribs that hating him had never felt so terrifyingly close to wanting him.

The next morning, pale golden sunlight filtered through the sheer window curtains.

Aira opened her eyes to find Dominic asleep on the floor, his head resting against the side of her mattress, one long-fingered hand curled possessively around the corner of her blanket.

As soon as she shifted, his dark eyes fluttered open. A slow smirk spread across his face as he met her glare.

"I didn’t crawl in," he said, his voice raspy with morning sleep. "You should be proud of my self-control."

Aira grabbed her pillow and threw it full-force at his face.