Page 50 of Ruined

“Now let’s get you dressed. I’ve got a couple of things that’ll fit you.”

He grabbed my wrist, pulling me out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He pushed me toward the closet, the hangers clinking as he flipped through them. He pulled out a white dress shirt and handed it to me.

“Put it on.”

I stared at it. “You want to dress me now?”

“I’m bored. Let’s see what you look like when you’re not trying to blend in with the walls.”

“You do this with all the guys you date?”

He smiled. “Only the ones that look as good as you.”

Heat flushed my neck, and I snatched the shirt from him, pulling it on with rough jerks. It stretched tight across my shoulders.

“It’s too small.”

He adjusted the collar. “Fits just right.”

His eyes met mine, and the world narrowed down to his heated stare. He grabbed the slacks and tossed them at me. I caught them, my fingers tightening around the fabric.

I hesitated, then stepped out of my jeans, the air cooling my skin. The slacks were snug, the material hugging my hips and thighs in a way that made me painfully aware of Dominic’s eyes on me.

“Tight.”

“Yeah. They’re perfect. Maybe too perfect.”

His gaze dropped to my hips. I turned away, pretending to fiddle with the cuffs of the shirt. “I guess it looks alright.”

“You look hot. You should show off more.”

My mouth twitched. “Are you my personal stylist now?”

“I like making you look like you belong to me.”

Fuck, that was forward.

A strange feeling swept under my feet. I felt too warm in his clothes, and a half-naked Dominic in my face made it hard to control myself. I needed to stop letting him boss me around.

“Seriously, Luca. You’re handsome.”

I hated how his words twisted inside me. It messed with my head.

“Don’t do that.”

Dominic’s lips curled. “Can’t handle a compliment?”

“I don’t need compliments from a man, and I definitely don’t need you playing dress-up with me.”

He prowled around me. “There’s nobody to hide from.”

“Don’t act like you know me.”

“I know you better than your family.”

My family. The people I had no connection with besides the links in our shared DNA. Why would I tell them anything? They were strangers. Whenever I hung out with them, that became extremely clear. They spoke in a mixture of Italian and English. I identified more with the bastards that stole me than my own blood. Russian tattoos covered my body.

I didn’t belong.

---