Page 33 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

I finish bandaging him, my hands slower than they need to be, lingering against his skin as if grounding myself in his warmth—proving to myself that he’s still here. That I haven’t lost him.

Dominic’s body is warm beneath my fingers, solid despite the raw wound beneath the fresh bandages. His breathing is steady but rough, each inhale just a little too shallow, a little too controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to show how much it hurts.

I need to pull away. Put distance between us before I do something reckless.

But I don’t.

Instead, I hesitate. My fingers graze along the ridges of his abdomen, just above where the bullet tore into him, where the bandages now hold him together. My voice is quiet, but I force myself to speak.

"The painting." The words are hesitant, uncertain. "You took it to the pier.”

Dominic tenses instantly, his eyes trying to avoid mine. The shift is subtle, but I feel it in the tightness of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch against the sheets. His usual calm, effortless mask is back in place, distant and untouchable.

"It's better if you don't know." His voice is flat, firm. A warning.

I swallow hard. “I want to understand.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. After a few minutes of waiting for an explanation, I sigh. But then—he exhales, slow and measured, like he’s debating whether to trust me.

Finally, his voice comes, quieter than before, laced with weariness.

"That painting…" He pauses, his gaze distant. “It was bait… it symbolizes something to the Delgados and I thought it was a good way of getting back at them.”

“Why do you need to get back at them?”

Dominic’s eyes meet mine, “Because they took my family away from me.”

His words settle between us.

My breath catches.

For the first time since I met him, Dominic Castellano isn’t just the ruthless cartel kingpin. He isn’t just the lethal, dangerous man who holds power over everything—including me.

He’s more than that. In the end, he’s just another wounded soul, like the rest of us.

And suddenly, I realize—this is why he’s like this. The walls. The indifference. The relentless control.

It’s all because of what he’s lost.

A deep, painful ache swells in my chest.

I shouldn’t want to reach for him. Shouldn’t crave the urge to ease the stress etched into his face, to tell him he hasn’t failed. That whoever he lost wouldn’t have blamed him.

But I do.

Instead, I whisper, "I’m sorry."

The space between us shifts at my words, crackling with an energy that’s impossible to ignore. I need to step away. Our first kiss was dangerous, but it could be counted as a mistake. But if we do it again, if we let ourselves fall into this, it won’t be an accident anymore.

But I don’t move.

And neither does he.

Dominic’s fingers graze my wrist—barely a touch—but it sends a wildfire through me, burning up my veins, leaving me raw, exposed. His grip lingers, slow, measured, as if testing how much I can take before I break. Before I surrender.

His gaze moves to my lips, then back to my eyes, as if he’s craving the same thing I am.

And then, in one slow movement, he steps closer, his fingers hovering just above my shoulder before finally settling there. His touch is hesitant at first, as if giving me a chance to pull away. But I don’t.

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