Chapter 3: The First Bruise

The ride back to the penthouse was a descent into a frozen hell. Silence, thick and suffocating, filled the armored SUV. Dominic sat beside Leo, radiating cold fury like a black hole, sucking all warmth and light from the space. He hadn’t spoken since snapping at Silas to “Get us home. Now.” Silas drove with unnerving focus, his eyes constantly scanning mirrors, his posture rigid. Leo sat pressed against the far door, the champagne flute’s ghostly chill still on his fingers, Silas’s fleeting touch a phantom brand on his skin. The spark felt like a betrayal now, a dangerous flicker in the face of Dominic’s icy rage.

He replayed the scene at the gala: Henderson’s shocked face, the sickening *crack* of the slap, the scattered canapés like fallen stars, Silas’s impassive mask only betrayed by that infinitesimal tightening of his jaw. But Dominic’s eyes, landing on him afterward… that was the true terror. It hadn’t been directed at Henderson. It had been a warning, cold and sharp, aimed solely at Leo. *You are next.*

The elevator ride to the penthouse felt interminable. Dominic stood ramrod straight, staring at the polished steel doors, his reflection a distorted mask of controlled fury. Silas stood slightly behind and to the side, a silent, watchful shadow. Leo kept his gaze fixed on the floor indicator, counting the blinking lights, each one a step closer to the inevitable.

The penthouse doors hissed open. Dominic strode in, not waiting for Silas to secure the entry. He ripped off his tuxedo jacket and flung it carelessly over the back of a million-dollar sofa. The sound was unnaturally loud in the cavernous silence.

“Get out,” Dominic commanded, his voice low and venomous, not looking at Silas.

Silas hesitated for a fraction of a second, his gaze flicking to Leo, who stood frozen just inside the doorway. “Sir, protocol–”

“I said *get out*, Vance!” Dominic whirled, his eyes blazing. “This is between me and my husband. Secure the damn perimeter if it makes you feel useful.”

Silas’s jaw clenched. Leo saw the conflict warring in his grey eyes – duty, protocol, warring with something else, something raw and protective that had surfaced when their hands touched. But Silas was a professional. He gave a curt nod. “Yes, Mr. Rossi.” His eyes met Leo’s for one last, fleeting moment – an apology? A warning? – before he turned and stepped back into the elevator vestibule, the doors sliding shut behind him with a soft, final click.

Leo was alone. Utterly alone. With Dominic.

Dominic paced, a predator circling trapped prey. “You,” he spat, stopping abruptly in front of Leo. “Standing there. Watching. Did you enjoy the show?”

Leo forced himself to meet Dominic’s gaze, his voice trembling despite his efforts. “Dominic, I–”

“You what?” Dominic took a step closer, invading Leo’s space. The smell of expensive bourbon and cold anger was overwhelming. “You thought Henderson was *right*? Thought I was being *unfair*?” His voice rose with each word.

“No, Dominic, of course not. I–”

“You embarrassed me.” The words were a whisper, yet they carried the force of a shout. “Standing there looking like a frightened rabbit while that imbecile challenged me. You made me look weak.”

“I didn’t–” Leo started, panic rising like bile in his throat.

“*Silence!*” Dominic roared. The sound echoed off the marble floors and high ceilings. He closed the remaining distance in one swift stride. Leo flinched, instinctively raising his hands.

Too late.

Dominic’s hand lashed out. Not an open-handed slap like Henderson’s, but a vicious, closed-fist backhand aimed with brutal precision. It connected with Leo’s left cheekbone with a sickening, wet *thud*.

Pain exploded. White light seared behind Leo’s eyes. His head snapped sideways, the force whipping his body around. He stumbled, crashing hard into the edge of a sleek, glass console table. Glass shattered. Leo cried out, more in shock than from the shards, as he slid down the wall, landing in a heap on the cold marble floor. Copper flooded his mouth – blood. He could feel the hot, sharp throb already starting in his cheekbone, the world tilting nauseatingly.

Dominic loomed over him, breathing heavily, his fury momentarily sated by the act of violence. He looked down at Leo, crumpled and bleeding, with chilling detachment. “Clean yourself up,” he ordered, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion but disgust. “You look pathetic.” He straightened his shirt cuff, the same hand that had struck Leo now adjusting fabric with fastidious care. He turned and walked towards his study without a backward glance, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

Leo lay there, trembling violently. The taste of blood was thick on his tongue. His cheek pulsed with agony, radiating heat. Tears, hot and humiliating, blurred his vision. The silence of the penthouse pressed down on him, heavier than ever. He was alone. Broken. The gilded cage had finally shown its true, brutal bars.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, huddled against the wall, shards of glass digging into his thigh. Long enough for the initial shock to recede, replaced by a bone-deep cold and a crushing sense of worthlessness. He touched his throbbing cheek, his fingers coming away smeared with blood. He needed to move. He needed to obey. Clean yourself up.

Using the wall for support, he hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. His legs felt like water. He shuffled towards the guest powder room near the foyer, avoiding the broken glass. His reflection in the mirror above the sink was a horror show. His left eye was already swelling shut, the skin around it an angry, mottled red-purple. A deep split marred his cheekbone, oozing blood that trickled down towards his jaw. His lower lip was also split and swollen. He looked like what he was: a victim.

He turned on the tap, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet. Cold water splashed onto his face, stinging the cuts, mixing with the blood and tears. He grabbed a hand towel, pressing it gingerly to his cheek, his breath hitching in ragged sobs he couldn’t suppress. The physical pain was intense, but the humiliation, the crushing weight of Dominic’s contempt, was worse. He was trapped. Utterly and completely.

A soft knock at the powder room door made him freeze, his blood turning to ice. Dominic? Back for more? Terror locked his muscles.

The door opened slowly. Not Dominic.

Silas Vance stood in the doorway. He’d clearly come from securing the perimeter; a light sheen of sweat glistened on his temple, his tie was slightly loosened. His gaze went instantly to Leo’s ruined face. The impassive mask Leo was used to shattered. Silas’s eyes widened fractionally, then narrowed, burning with a fury so intense it seemed to scorch the air. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. He saw the blood, the swelling, the tear tracks, the utter devastation.

For a long, charged moment, neither moved. Silas stood framed in the doorway, a statue carved from rage and something else – a profound, helpless anguish. Leo stared back, raw and exposed, the evidence of his shame and pain on full display.

Then, without a word, Silas stepped into the small room. He closed the door softly behind him, locking it with a quiet *snick*. The sound was both a shield and an admission. He was breaking protocol. Severely.

He moved to the sink, his movements deliberate, controlled, yet radiating a contained violence that was somehow more terrifying than Dominic’s outburst. He wet a fresh hand towel under the cold tap, wringing it out. His hands, Leo noticed, were perfectly steady. Soldier’s hands.

Silas turned to him. “Let me,” he said, his voice a low, rough rasp, stripped of all pretense of professionalism. It was raw, human, vibrating with suppressed emotion.

Leo flinched instinctively, expecting another blow, another demand. But Silas didn’t move aggressively. He simply stood there, holding the damp cloth, his grey eyes holding Leo’s with an intensity that was almost unbearable. It wasn’t pity. It was fury on Leo’s behalf. It was recognition. It was the spark from the gala, now fanned into a dangerous flame.

Trembling, Leo lowered the bloodied towel he’d been clutching. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He just stood there, broken and bleeding, under Silas’s scorching gaze.

Slowly, carefully, Silas raised the damp cloth. He hesitated for a heartbeat, his eyes searching Leo’s, seeking permission, understanding the monumental line he was crossing. Leo held his breath, his heart hammering against his bruised ribs.

Then, with infinite gentleness that belied his lethal strength, Silas pressed the cool cloth to Leo’s swollen cheekbone.

The touch was electric. It wasn’t just the relief of the cold on the burning pain. It was the sheer, shocking tenderness of it. The careful way Silas dabbed at the blood, avoiding the worst of the split skin. The way his other hand came up, not to hold Leo still, but to rest lightly, reassuringly, on his shoulder. A point of solid warmth in Leo’s shattered world.

Leo closed his eyes. A single, ragged sob escaped him. He leaned into the touch, into the solid presence of the man who was supposed to be just a shadow, just a guard. But in this moment, locked in a powder room with the scent of blood and gun oil, Silas Vance was the only real thing in Leo’s collapsing universe. The spark had found its fuel. The first bruise wasn’t just on Leo’s face; it was on the fragile barrier between prisoner and keeper. And it was bleeding, dangerously, into something else entirely.