Chapter Six: The Drive Back

Amelia

I should’ve taken a cab.

I should’ve made up an excuse, claimed I needed to get back early, pretended to check my phone and fake a family emergency — literally anything to avoid this.

But I didn’t.

Because some dangerous, masochistic part of me wanted to know how far this would go.

How far I could push him.

How far he’d let me fall.

So now I was in the backseat of his car.

His driver opened the door for us without a word, and Dominic gestured for me to slide in first. That dark, unreadable expression still fixed on his face. The same one he’d worn through the last hour of that suffocatingly tense dinner.

I climbed in, careful not to flash too much leg, even though I was pretty sure the damage had already been done.

The interior smelled like leather and spice. Expensive cologne clung to the air, sharp and masculine and so painfully him that it made my pulse skip.

Dominic slid in beside me, and even though the backseat was spacious, he didn’t put much distance between us. His thigh brushed mine, firm and warm through the fabric of my dress, and I swore I felt the contact everywhere.

The driver shut the door.

The world outside faded.

And we were alone.

The car eased away from the curb, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did I.

The silence stretched, thick and oppressive, but it wasn’t empty.

It was heavy with everything we hadn’t said in years.

With every almost, every wrong look, every sharp word meant to cut deep because it was safer than admitting the truth.

I stared out the window, pretending to admire the skyline, but all I could feel was the heat of his body next to mine. The brush of his sleeve against my bare shoulder.

It wasn’t fair.

That after everything — after every cruel nickname, every fight, every snide comment — he could still make me feel like this.

Unsteady.

Wrecked.

Alive.

“You shouldn’t have worn that,” Dominic said quietly, voice like rough velvet in the dark.

I turned to him, heart slamming against my ribs. “Excuse me?”

His jaw clenched, and he dragged his gaze over me like a physical touch.

“That dress,” he muttered, as if the words were being ripped out of him. “You knew what you were doing.”

I scoffed. “And what’s that, exactly?”

His hand moved, slow and deliberate, brushing a lock of hair from my shoulder. His knuckles skimmed the side of my neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

My breath hitched.

“Testing me.”

I swallowed hard. “Dominic—”

“I’m not a good man, Carter.”

His hand dropped to his thigh, his fingers flexing like he was resisting the urge to touch me again. “I don’t play fair. And I sure as hell don’t lose.”

I knew I should shut this down. Draw a line. Remind him of my brother. Of the fact that this was dangerous. Stupid. Irreversible.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Because God help me — I didn’t want to stop.

I wanted to know what it would feel like if he stopped pretending.

If he crossed the line we both pretended wasn’t there.

The car slowed, pulling in front of my hotel, and for a second, neither of us moved.

His eyes pinned mine in the dim light.

Another wrong choice waiting to be made.

“I’ll see you at eight,” he said finally, his voice low and rough.

And before I could answer, he was out of the car.

Gone.

Leaving me breathless, aching, and entirely ruined.