Page 12 of Ruined By the Enemy
“And what would that be, Mr. Moretti?”
Chapter Four
Dom
I slip into the passenger’s side of the car as the driver closes the back door for Sophie. Her soft, flowery fragrance fills the confined space, stripping it of everything else.
Everything but the painful awareness of just how close she is.
I keep my gaze fixed forward, refusing to glance at the rearview mirror. I don’t need to see her eyes. I already feel them on the back of my neck.
Because I underestimated her. Badly.
She was right. The Rideover construction project was a test. A trap, if I’m being honest. I’d designed it to break her down, to chip away at that unshakable composure until she folded. I didn’t need much—just one crack. One slip.
Something I could use.
The project was fast-paced, under-resourced, and doomed from the start. I chose it on purpose. It was meant to eat her alive.
But she didn’t just survive it.She owned it.
I watched her take the lead without hesitation, her smile fixed in place, and her voice smooth and decisive. Her glasses slipped down the bridge of her nose now and then, her auburn hair catching the light as it bounced against her shoulders.
She made it look effortless, which was what got under my skin.
If I didn’t want so badly to see her come undone—to rip through that polished surface and expose what’s beneath—I might’ve been impressed. I might’ve even said it.
Instead, all I felt was a quiet, gnawing admiration laced with something darker. Something like anger, simmering beneath my skin, tight and constant.
Then she said it.
“I could say the same about you. I doubt you even trust yourself.”
The words landed harder than I expected. Not because she was wrong. But because for one brief second, I didn’t have anything to say back.
The plan to get her drunk hadn’t been strategic either. It was impulsive, with frustration bleeding into instinct. I thought maybe—just maybe—a little liquor would loosen her edges, give me a glimpse of the cracks. I thought she might let something slip if I pushed the right buttons.
But she didn’t.
Two glasses in, she smiled, thanked the server, and called it a night. Not even a wobble in her voice.
Meanwhile, I sat there wondering when the tables had turned because, at some point, it stopped being about getting the truth.
It was the flush that crept up her cheeks, the way she ran her fingers through her hair, and the tight feeling in my chest eachtime her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip, staining the tip pink.
It was the blood rushing from my head below my belt that drove me close to the edge.
I found myself losing control to someone who should’ve broken the moment I touched her.
A small sigh escapes her behind me, too soft to mean anything—except it does. It reaches under my skin and leaves a mark, like her presence is capable of touching nerve endings she shouldn’t even know exist.
A muscle in my jaw tightens. “We’ll be staying at the hotel’s penthouse tonight. We’re heading back at first light,” I say, my voice clipped.
“Fine by me,” she replies, calm and even.
The rest of the ride passes in silence. The car pulls up outside the building, and I exit, striding towards the revolving doors without waiting to see if she’ll follow.
“Do you need me to help you, ma’am?”
