Thirty Days to Burn Him

The plain platinum band slid right off the top of the divorce papers as I jolted back against Dominic’s chest.

Before the ring could hit the marble floor and give us away, Dominic’s gloved left hand shot out and caught it in midair.

Neither of us moved. Ten feet down the dim gallery, Preston let out another loud, ragged groan behind his half-open study door, followed by the tinny sound of Chloe’s laughter over the speakerphone.

I steadied myself, tightening my grip on the silver Elysium case in my left hand as I eased back an inch from Dominic’s charcoal overcoat.

"What are you doing up here, Dominic?" I kept my voice to a whisper. "I thought you never set foot in your brother’s house."

"Preston left the front gate unlocked, and the housekeeper let me in twenty minutes ago to drop off the board’s quarterly audit," Dominic murmured, his gaze dropping from my face to the red signature at the bottom of the divorce agreement. He rolled my wedding band between his leather-clad fingers. "Though the audit is nowhere near as entertaining as watching my brother’s loyal little wife finally slip her leash."

Inside the study, the leather chair creaked as Preston stood up.

"Hold on a second, Chloe," Preston said, his voice suddenly much closer to the doorway. "My throat’s dry. Let me grab some water from the hall bar before we finish."

His footsteps neared the mahogany door.

If Preston caught me in the corridor with signed divorce papers and the locked Elysium compound before tomorrow morning’s board review, he’d lock down the house security system and take the case before I even made it down the stairs.

Before I could bolt for the staircase, Dominic hooked his arm around my waist and pulled me back into the dark alcove behind the wide marble pillar at the turn of the gallery.

My back hit the smooth stone wall just as Dominic stepped in front of me, blocking me from view with his broad frame. He planted the rubber tip of his black titanium cane right between the toes of my boots.

To keep my balance in the tight space, I braced my free hand against his lapel. The cuff of my trench coat rode up my forearm, baring the inside of my wrist—where a trace of the concentrated wild valerian and white neroli oil I’d distilled in the basement lab still lingered on my skin.

Dominic’s chest rose against my palm as he inhaled.

His shoulders went rigid under my hand.

He looked straight down at me, his face inches from mine in the shadows. Then he leaned in closer to my neck, breathing in the botanical oil at my pulse point a second time.

"Where did you get that oil?" Dominic asked under his breath, the amusement gone from his voice.

"I formulated it myself," I whispered back, frowning at the sudden intensity in his eyes. "Why?"

Three years ago, on a rain-slick highway outside the city, I’d crawled into the crushed wreckage of an overturned luxury sedan and rubbed this exact botanical blend onto a dying stranger’s temples for forty minutes to keep him out of shock until the ambulances arrived. I never saw the man’s face through the blood and pouring rain—and two weeks later, Preston claimed he was the one who had pulled Dominic from that wreck.

Dominic stared down at my wrist, then up into my eyes. Whatever he saw there made his breathing turn shallow.

Everyone in the Sinclair empire knew Dominic hadn’t let another person’s bare skin touch his since the crash that damaged the nerves in his right leg. Even at summer shareholder summits, those black leather gloves never came off.

Yet right here in the dark, Dominic raised his right hand to his mouth, caught the leather tip of the index finger between his teeth, and tugged the glove off.

He shoved the leather into his coat pocket and lifted his bare hand to my face.

His warm, calloused thumb brushed across my bottom lip. The sudden heat of his bare skin made my breath catch against his palm. After two years with a husband who flinched whenever I reached for his hand, the sheer weight of Dominic’s touch set my pulse racing.

Down the gallery, the study door swung wide open.

Light spilled across the hallway runner. Preston stepped out, phone pressed to his ear as he buckled his belt with his free hand.

"Wait—what the hell?" Preston stopped dead beside the marble console table. "Chloe, I’ll call you back."

He hung up. Through the narrow gap beside the pillar, I watched him pick up the porcelain mug of chamomile tea I’d left on the table three minutes ago.

"Still warm," Preston muttered, whipping his head toward the dark gallery. "Sienna? Are you up here?"

Dominic didn’t take his hand off my mouth. Instead, he shifted his weight forward, wedging his hard thigh right between mine and pinning my hips flush against the wall so I couldn't make a sound.

His mouth brushed the skin just below my ear as his bare thumb pressed firmer against my bottom lip.

"Two years of loyalty for a coward who fakes impotence while your best friend steals your crown, little sister-in-law," Dominic whispered against my skin. "Give me thirty days, and I’ll help you bury them both—starting in my bed."

Outside the alcove, Preston’s footsteps crossed the marble floor and stopped right on the other side of our pillar, his hand reaching around the stone edge toward the light switch.