Page 86 of Savage Don's Captive

His use of my city doesn’t escape me—the possessive claim of a man who sees the world as territory to control. I should find it repulsive. Instead, I find myself understanding it, even as fear coils in my gut.

“You haven’t found him yet?” I trace the ridges of muscle beneath his shirt, seeking reassurance in his strength.

“I still haven’t called Matteo. I’ll do it in the morning.” His hand resumes its path along my shoulder, dipping lower to trace my spine through the silk. Each touch leaves a trail of heat in its wake.

“And what did TJ want?” I press, unable to stop myself from seeking more information.

“What’s with all the questions, Alessa?” Dominic’s nose brushes against my hair, inhaling deeply.

I lift my head to meet his gaze, confusion washing over me in waves. Why am I asking all these questions? Why do I suddenly care about the Commission’s politics, about Raffy’s weapons, about TJ’s reports?

The answer burns in my chest, undeniable and terrifying—because I want Dominic to win. I want him to survive this. I want us to survive this—even if “us” means stepping back into the very hell I’ve been fighting to escape.

“I don’t know.” I turn my face into his chest, hiding the lie before it can reach my eyes.

“TJ was giving me some updates about Marco.” His fingers brush the nape of my neck, tracing circles on the sensitive skin there. My body responds instantly, leaning into his touch even as my mind races with the implications of his words.

“Did they find him?” The question emerges breathless, caught between hope and dread.

“Not yet. They’re setting up base in Maine and they’ll go through the plan with me tomorrow.” His eyes track my reaction, missing nothing.

“If he’s in the cabin, what’s going to happen?” My nails dig slightly into his side, an unconscious pressure.

“Well, Luca’s leading the operation,” he says, skepticism coloring his tone. His thumb traces my jawline, leaving fire in its wake. “But TJ’s there to keep him from screwing it up. Let’s be honest—he’s the one really running the show.”

A soft laugh escapes me, surprising us both. “He’s not going to kill him, right?” The question slips out, my voice smaller than I intended.

“No,” Dominic answers, his tone cooling to ice. “They’ll try to negotiate with him first, see if he goes with them willingly. Otherwise, Luca will sedate him. It’s usually a last resort.”

Like what they did to me, I think, remembering the disorientation, the helplessness.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Dominic murmurs, his breath warm against my temple. His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze.

“What?”

“The night that we retrieved you from your penthouse?”

“Oh, is that what that was?” I arch an eyebrow, heat crawling up my neck and into my cheeks. “A retrieval?”

“What did you think it was?” A dangerous amusement dances in his eyes, and it strikes me as absurd—that weeks ago I couldn’t look at this man without hatred, and now I’m pressed against him, joking about my own abduction.

“Just off the top of my head? I don’t know, breaking and entering? Assault? Kidnapping? Attempted murder?” Each crime falls from my lips like a caress rather than an accusation.

“Attempted murder?” He gasps with mock offense. “Killing you that night wasn’t on my list of things to do, alright? And if Luca wasn’t there, and if the assignment wasn’t so critical, things might have turned out differently.”

“Really,” I challenge, pulling away from his embrace to sit up. The silk robe slips off one shoulder, but I make no move to fix it. His eyes darken as they track my exposed skin. “Enlighten me.”

“Well, I would have accidentally bumped into you at work, maybe at the tiny coffee shop you go to every morning.” His voice drops an octave, rough and intimate.

“You know where I work—”

“Investigative Journalist at The New York Times under Jennifer Van der Woodsen who’s nepotism herself,” he recites with perfect recall. “You know you’re better off working alone than with her, right?”

“What’s the point? I don’t think I have a job to return to anyway.” The reality of how much my life has changed crashes over me.

“And the coffee shop?” I press, unable to stop myself from wanting to know just how closely he’d watched me before that night.

“Caffè Cultura.” His lips curl around the Italian words with native precision.

---