Chapter Fifty One: Gentle Hands

She wasn't hiding. Wasn't trying to be subtle. She was just sitting there, watching us with the patient stillness of a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

Our eyes met through her windshield, and she smiled.

Not a warm smile. Not even a fake polite smile.

A smile that promised suffering.

Then she started her engine and drove away, disappearing into the city traffic like she'd never been there at all.

Every muscle in my body went rigid. My breath came in short, sharp bursts. The parking garage suddenly felt like a trap, with enemies lurking behind every concrete pillar.

She was watching us. Waiting. Planning.

"Scarlett?" Dominic's voice seemed to come from very far away. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't answer. Couldn't move. The image of Lydia's smile was burned into my retinas, promising that this war was far from over.

Dominic followed my gaze to where the Mercedes had been, his expression shifting to something deadly. "Was that—"

"Your mother," I finished. "She was watching us."

His hand moved to the small of my back, guiding me toward the car with gentle urgency. "Get in."

The driver held the door open, and I slid into the leather backseat on autopilot. Dominic followed immediately, giving clipped instructions to both the driver and his security team through an earpiece.

As we pulled out of the parking garage, I sat rigidly upright, my muscles coiled like spring steel. Every shadow could hide an assassin. Every car could contain an enemy. Every moment could be my last.

How many people want me dead? I wondered. The Reynolds family. Lydia. The Van Alston board who want me gone. How do I fight enemies I can't even see coming?

Dominic reached for me, probably intending to pull me against his side in one of those protective gestures that had become second nature to him.

But I couldn't relax. Couldn't let my guard down. Not when Lydia's smile was still echoing in my mind like a threat.

"Hey," he said softly, his hand stilling on my arm. "You're safe."

Am I? I thought. Am I really safe, or is this just another elaborate trap?

"I know you're hurting," he continued, his voice dropping to that tone that seemed to bypass my brain and speak directly to parts of me I'd thought were dead. "I know you feel like you have to fight everything and everyone. But when you're with me, you don't have to be the warrior. You can just be you, a little cute girl."

The words hit something deep in my chest, something that had been wound tight for so long I'd forgotten what it felt like to breathe freely.

When you're with him, you can just be a girl.

Slowly, carefully, I let myself lean into his warmth. Let his arm come around me, let his strength support me for just a moment.

But even as my body relaxed against his, my mind couldn't stop racing.

What if this is all an act? What if he's just like everyone else, playing a longer game, waiting for the perfect moment to destroy me?

Dominic was the most ruthless man I'd ever met. He'd built his empire on the bones of his enemies. He was capable of violence that would make hardened criminals weep.

What if his protection is just another form of control? What if he's planning to use my inheritance against me? What if he's no different from Blake, just better at hiding his true intentions?

The thoughts circled in my mind like vultures, picking at every moment of tenderness, every gesture of protection, looking for the hidden blade.

Outside the car window, the city blurred past in streaks of light and shadow. Inside, I was wrapped in the arms of a man who could either be my salvation or my destruction.

And I had no idea which one he really was.

***

The mansion felt different when we arrived—quieter, more secure, like Dominic had turned it into an actual fortress while I was gone. Guards at every entrance, cameras that tracked our movement, the kind of security that made breathing feel safer.

"Bath first," Dominic said as soon as we reached our bedroom. "Then food, then sleep."

"I can manage a bath by myself," I said, but even as the words left my mouth, I felt the exhaustion hitting me like a physical weight.

"I know you can," he replied, already moving toward the bathroom. "But you don't have to."

The bathroom was soon filled with steam and the scent of lavender bath oils. Dominic had dimmed the lights, lit candles, turned the space into something that felt more like a spa than a place to get clean.

"Arms up," he said softly, his fingers finding the hem of my hospital gown.

I raised my arms like an obedient child, letting him peel away the thin fabric that smelled of antiseptic and fear. His hands were gentle, reverent, as if I were made of spun glass and might shatter at the slightest rough touch.

The warm water felt like heaven against my aching muscles. I sank into it with a sigh that came from somewhere deep in my bones.

Dominic knelt beside the tub, his expensive shirt sleeves rolled up, a bottle of shampoo in his hands.

"Lean forward," he murmured.

His fingers worked through my hair with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for precious artifacts. The shampoo smelled like jasmine and rain, and his touch was so gentle it made my throat tight with unexpected emotion.

"When did this happen?" I asked quietly, my voice barely audible over the soft splash of water.

"When did what happen?"

"This." I gestured between us, at his careful ministrations, at the tenderness that seemed to come so naturally to him now. "A month ago, you could barely stand to be in the same room as me. We didn't like each other. I wasn’t sure if you cared if I lived or died after getting back at Blake."

His hands stilled in my hair for a moment. "And now?"

"Now you're washing my hair like I'm something precious. Taking care of me like..." I trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

"Like what?"

"Like you actually care about me. Or is this because you found out I might be worth more money than you are? Are you kissing up to the potential billionaire heiress now?"

He laughed—a real laugh, not the controlled sound he usually made in public. "You caught me," he said, his voice full of mock seriousness. "Yes, I'm clearly trying to curry favor with my new queen. Groveling at your feet in hopes you'll share your empire with me."

Despite everything, I found myself laughing too. "I knew it. You're just a gold digger."

"The most expensive gold digger in the world," he agreed solemnly. "I only marry billionaires."

The laughter felt good, cleansing in a way that had nothing to do with the bath water. It felt normal, human, like we were just a couple teasing each other instead of two people caught in a web of violence and conspiracy.

He finished rinsing my hair, then moved to lift my feet out of the water one at a time. His touch was clinical and intimate all at once, washing away the hospital smell, the memory of running through parking garages in fear.

"Out," he said finally, holding up a towel that looked softer than clouds.

He wrapped me in it, then in a robe that felt like being embraced by warmth itself. Led me to the bed where he'd laid out silk pajamas that probably cost more than most people's rent.

"I can dress myself," I protested weakly.

"I know," he said again, but his hands were already moving, sliding the silk over my skin with reverent care.

By the time he was done, I felt like a different person. Clean, cared for, cherished in a way I'd never experienced before.

He pulled back the covers and guided me into bed, tucking the blankets around me with the kind of attention usually reserved for sick children or priceless paintings.

Then he climbed in beside me, still fully clothed, and pulled me against his chest.

"When did things change?" I asked again, my voice muffled against his shirt.

His arm tightened around me. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "Somewhere between the hospital and the gala, the gun that would have taken your life and watching you face down lawyers who wanted to destroy you. Somewhere between seeing you refuse to back down and realizing that you're stronger than anyone who's ever tried to break you."

I tilted my head up to look at him, and for a moment, I thought he might kiss me. His eyes dropped to my lips, his breath caught, and the air between us crackled with the kind of electricity that made thinking impossible.

But instead of my mouth, he pressed his lips to my forehead—a kiss so tender it made my chest ache with emotions I couldn't name.

"Sleep," he whispered against my skin. "I'll keep watch."

I closed my eyes, feeling safer than I had in weeks despite knowing that half the world wanted me dead.

Just before sleep claimed me, I heard him murmur something so quietly I almost missed it.

"I don't know when it changed," he said, his voice barely audible. "I just know I can't stand to see you sad anymore."

The words followed me into dreams where enemies became allies and monsters learned how to love.