Page 23 of Beneath the Thorned Crown

Charles releases a slow breath, resignation settling in his expression. “You are.”

Dominic doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—he just holds Charles in that quiet, unshakable stare of his. The kind that doesn’t allow for argument.

“Then act like it.”

My breath catches in my throat, my pulse pounding against my ribs.

Pier 12.

Weapons.

A meeting that could turn into a massacre.

And Dominic is walking straight into it.

Ice drips through my veins at the sharp finality of his words. He’s not just a leader—he’s the leader. Unquestioned. Unchallenged. Even Charles, the man who’s always by his side, ultimately falls silent in the face of Dominic’s authority.

And for the first time, I hate it.

I hate how he’s so damn certain, how he refuses to see how reckless this is.

I hate how he won’t even consider backing down.

But more than that, I hate that I care.

I want to stop the twisting unease in my chest—the urge to reach out and stop him. But I don’t. And I hate it.

Suddenly, I freeze. Dominic’s voice slides over me like silk, quiet but laced with undeniable authority.

“I hope you enjoyed the show.”

The words send a jolt through my system, making my pulse quicken. When I turn, I find him standing a few feet away, his posture relaxed but his presence imposing. His dark eyes are unreadable, but the way they settle on me—slow, assessing, almost amused—makes my stomach tighten.

Damn him.

Charles, standing off to the side, makes a low sound in his throat. “I need a drink,” he mutters before turning and strolling off, leaving us alone.

Coward.

The soft glow of neon from a nearby sign reflects off the silver streaks in Dominic’s suit, accentuating every sharp edge of his frame. He looks effortlessly powerful, like a man who belongs in control, a man who doesn’t second-guess his choices. The low light catches the angles of his face, tracing over the smooth planes of his jaw, and for a second, I forget to breathe.

His tie is slightly loosened, as if he’s been working for hours—planning. And from what I overheard… it’s dangerous.

I force myself to shake off the way my body reacts to him. It’s maddening—this pull toward him, this irritating awareness of how damn good he looks under the hazy glow of the city.

“I wasn’t—” I start, but the way his brow arches tells me he’s already decided I’m lying.

“Spying?” His voice carries a quiet challenge, his head tilting slightly. “Or eavesdropping?”

I scowl, stepping forward with more defiance than I actually feel. My arms cross tightly over my chest, a flimsy barrier between me and the way he makes my heart race. “I was walking.”

His lips twitch, that damn smirk, like he’s amused by my stubbornness. “Right.” Dominic watches me, his eyes darker than before. “What are you doing, Isabella?” His voice has dropped lower, the smooth cadence sending a warmth unfurling in my chest.

I exhale sharply. “Maybe I should be asking you that.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze sharpens. “Curious, are we?” There’s amusement laced in his words, but underneath it, there’s something dangerous.

“Don’t patronize me.” I step closer, the crunch of gravel under my boots filling the heavy silence between us. The scent of his cologne—cedarwood and patchouli—wraps around me, and I force myself to focus. “I heard what you said.” My voice steadies. “Pier 12. Weapons. You’re walking into something dangerous.”

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