Page 32 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

By the time we reached the house, a doctor was already waiting.

The Castellano estate felt eerily silent as the doctor worked, stripping Dominic of his ruined shirt and assessing the damage with practiced efficiency. The sight of his bare skin—marked with old scars, wounds from a life spent in violence—was something I’d seen before, yet it unsettled me in a way I couldn’t ignore.

"He’s lucky," the doctor murmured, his expression grim as he threaded a needle. "Another minute, and this could’ve ended very differently."

I didn’t let myself think about that.

Instead, I stayed close, watching every movement, absorbing every word. The antiseptic stung my nose, the harsh scent clashing with the lingering traces of Dominic’s cologne, still faint on his skin. The doctor stitched him up with steady hands, but my own trembled in my lap, clenched together so tightly my nails bit into my palms.

Charles stood across the room, watching me. His stare was emotionless, but his eyes were heavy with exhaustion. Then, after a long moment, he exhaled and muttered, "You care about him."

I flinched slightly, looking up.

"I can see that." His voice wasn’t accusing—just observant. "Don’t make me regret this."

I didn’t answer, but I didn’t have to. Because there was no turning back.

A low groan escapes Dominic’s lips as his eyelids flutter open, his brows furrowing in the dim light. His breathing is uneven, his movements sluggish, but when his gaze finally lands on me, something inside me snaps.

“You’re awake.” The words rush out of me, barely above a whisper. Thank God.

Dominic blinks slowly, as if trying to focus, then smirks—the bastard actually smirks.

“Barely.” His voice is rough, his lips dry and cracked. “You look worse than I feel.”

I let out a sharp breath, a mix of laughter and relief.

“You shouldn’t joke,” I say, because I almost lost him. “You almost…” My voice catches, and I don’t finish the sentence.

His gaze softens slightly, and before I can react, his fingers brush against my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen. His touch is light, but it burns all the same.

“I’m still here, Isabella.”

And damn him, because the way he says it, my name—soft, steady—makes me believe it.

Dominic tries to sit up, and I immediately push him back down.

“You’re unbelievable,” I snap, reaching for the fresh bandages. “You could’ve died, and now you’re acting like nothing happened.”

He chuckles, wincing slightly as he moves. “I’m not dead, am I?”

I glare at him. “You’re not invincible, Dominic.”

A pause. Then, softer, “I know.”

The admission surprises me, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I focus on peeling away the old bandage, my fingers careful as I clean the wound. His skin is warm under my touch, solid and real, and I hate how much it steadies me.

“How many times?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t pretend not to understand.

“Too many to count.” His tone is casual, but I hear the weight beneath it.

“But this time… it was different.”

A touch of hesitation crosses his face. For a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then—

“This time, I had something to lose.”

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