Page 79 of Savage Don's Captive

Dominic hovers above me, his face a mask of barely controlled panic. There’s blood streaked across his cheek like war paint, his jaw clenched so tight I can see a muscle twitching beneath his skin. His eyes—usually calculating death with the cold precision of a hitman—now hold a raw terror that transforms his entire face into something almost human.

“Alessa,” he whispers again, voice sandpaper rough as if he’s been screaming for hours. His hand tightens around mine, the calluses on his palm scraping against my skin, anchoring me to the present.

The antiseptic smell hits me next, sharp and clinical. Hospital. The steady beep of monitors, the IV tugging at my arm, the sterile white walls closing in. Reality crashes over me in brutal waves—the church, the explosion, the heat and pressure before everything went black.

Every inch of me screams in protest. My back feels like I’ve been slammed against concrete, my muscles knotted and throbbing. My throat burns raw, like I’ve swallowed glass and smoke.

My hand trembles violently as I reach for my face, needing to confirm I’m still whole, not missing parts of myself. My fingers catch on something—the pulse oximeter clipped to my index finger. I tug it off, tossing it aside. The nasal cannula presses uncomfortably against my nostrils, and I claw at it too, suddenly desperate to free myself from all these tubes and wires.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, his voice unexpectedly gentle. It cuts through the chaos in my head like a knife through butter. “Relax, Alessa. You’re okay.”

I shake my head, desperate to escape the confinement. My back screams from being in one position too long. I need to move, need to feel in control of something.

“You’re going to rip your IV, baby,” he warns, still eerily calm. I glance down at the needle in my arm, feeling the tug as I shift. His hand hovers near mine, ready to stop me but not quite touching.

Finally, I meet his gaze. And the world stops spinning.

Dominic.

He’s not wearing his usual suits or even all black. Instead, he’s in a white shirt and faded jeans that make him look younger, almost human. It’s jarring—like seeing a wolf in sheep’sclothing. Yet his presence steadies me in a way that makes my stomach knot with confusion.

For a moment, I just watch him—the tension in his stance, the way his other hand kept clenching and unclenching at his side. I’ve never seen him look so... human. So vulnerable.

“Water,” I croak out.Relief flashes across his face before he schooles his features back into careful neutrality. But I’d seen it. Just like I’d seen the bloodstains on his white shirt, the dark circles under his eyes.

He stayed?

“About time, piccola,” he says, his voice gruff as he reached for the cup beside my bed. “Thought you were going to sleep through the whole damn week.”

His hand slides behind my neck, surprisingly gentle as he helps me drink. Our eyes met over the rim of the cup, and something shifted between us—something I’m not ready to examine.

The memory crashes back—the searing pain, Dominic’s voice calling my name, darkness closing in. I thought I was dying. Maybe I had, for a moment.

“You carried me out,” I whispered. It isn’t a question.

Something raw flickers in his eyes. “You’re mine to protect, Alessa. Even if I’m the one who dragged you into this mess in the first place.”

When did this happen? How did my captor become my comfort?

“What happened?” I asked when I could speak.

“After the bombing...” his jaw tightens. “Raffy happened.”Dominic sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He takes my hand again, bringing it to his lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Tell me.” I brush my thumb across his knuckles, feeling the roughness of scars I’ve never noticed before.

“You’re going to hate me.”

“Not as much as I already do, Dominic.” My lips curve into a weak smile.

Whatever this is between us, it isn’t hatred anymore

“How long was I out?” My voice scrapes against my throat like sandpaper.

“Almost the entire day.” He stands to adjust my pillow with surprising tenderness. “How are you feeling? Are you hungry? Thirsty? I sent Luca out to get something to eat—”

“I’m fine.” I force a weak smile despite how every nerve ending feels like a live wire. “Everything hurts, but I’m fine.”

“When I saw you lying on that floor, I thought you were dead,” he admits, vulnerability raw in his voice. “And it put a lot of things into perspective. I’m sick of people in my life dying. I’veseen it in the past, and I thought that if I just played my cards right, if I put up with the Commission, I won’t have to go through any of that shit again.”

---