Page 42 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

Nico leans against the desk, arms crossed. “It’s the best way to get Samuel to show his hand.”

I exhale sharply, pressing my fingers against my temples. “And what happens when he does? When he shows up?”

Dominic lifts his whiskey glass to his lips, taking a slow sip before answering.

“Then we handle him.”

That’s it. That’s his entire plan.

Like it’s that simple.

Like it won’t end in more blood, more bullets, more goddamn carnage.

I shake my head. “You’re reckless.”

He smirks. “And you’re dramatic.”

I narrow my eyes. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re putting yourself in danger. Again. For what? Revenge?”

Dominic watches me, his gaze steady, unyielding. But for the first time, I see beyond the cold calculation that usually lurks in his dark eyes. Weariness drags at his features, the faintest shadow beneath them betraying more than he ever would. His knuckles whiten around the glass in his hand, but it’s the exhaustion that unsettles me the most.

The room is dimly lit, the golden glow from the fireplace gleaming against his face, highlighting the sharp angles and the deep shadows beneath his eyes. Dark circles bruise his skin, stark against his usually impenetrable exterior. His complexion is paler than normal, like he hasn’t seen the sun in days, and his normally composed presence feels... worn. Weakened.

Like he hasn't been sleeping.

Like something is slowly unraveling inside him.

A strange feeling twists in my chest, unexpected and unwelcome. It’s not sympathy—I tell myself it isn’t. But seeing him like this, stripped of his usual effortless control, makes my stomach tighten. This is the man who stood on that pier, taking a bullet like he was untouchable. The man who has done nothing but exude confidence, arrogance, and authority since the moment I met him.

And now?

Now, he looks human.

I hate the way it affects me.

I narrow my eyes, ignoring the simmer of frustration beneath my skin. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re putting yourself in danger. Again. For what? Revenge?”

Dominic doesn’t blink. His fingers tighten around the whiskey glass, but his voice remains steady. “For control.”

It takes me a second to understand.

This isn’t just about Samuel. It never was.

Dominic isn’t just trying to strike back—he’s trying to force Samuel into a corner, trying to make him suffer. Not just in retaliation, but in a way that will make him feel helpless.

Like Dominic felt when he lost his family.

Like he nearly felt when he almost lost his life.

I swallow hard, my anger hardening into determination.

I glance at my painting again, the careful strokes, the hours I poured into it. It was never meant to be part of this world—this world of violence, power, and vengeance. But now it is.

And so am I.

Trapped in it.

I could walk away.

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