Page 39 of A Cobbled Conspiracy
He pulled back to meet my eyes, and what I saw there was carefully controlled. “The kind that gets results. Trust me to handle it, okay?”
His non-answer was both maddening and somehow more unsettling than direct honesty would have been. “You think I’m naive.”
“I think you shouldn’t have to waste your time learning how to navigate corrupt systems when you have people who can handle that for you,” he corrected.
“And I think you’re being a controlling bastard who can’t tell the difference between protection and possession.”
He growled, literally growled at me. Not a rumble of satisfaction or playfulness. No, this sound erupted from somewhere primal, rolling from deep in his chest through his throat—a sound that made my omega instincts screampredator.
The sound should have sent me scrambling to get away. Instead, heat pooled low in my belly while the hair on the back of my neck stood on end—my body caught between fight and an entirely different kind of surrender.
“I’m not to be managed.” I said, hating how my voice was already getting breathy.
He hummed noncommittally, his mouth trailing down my neck to my collarbone, not quite kissing but close enough that I could feel his breath against my skin. “Tell me you don’t want me to take care of you.”
I shifted tactics. “While you're here, I wanted to talk about you and Blake making housing decisions without even discussing them with me.”
Dominic's huffed, his breath tickling my neck. “Blake mentioned some secure options. Given everything that’s happened?—”
“You decided I should be moved somewhere you can keep better tabs on me,” I cut him off.
“I decided you should be somewhere less likely to be targeted,” he corrected, his alpha instinct to control the situation clearly engaging. “Someone broke into the Historical Society the same night my bail was denied. And your shop has been a focus of attention we don’t fully understand yet.”
“This is my home,” I said, gesturing around us even though we were downstairs in the shop. “Five generations of my family have lived above this shop. This is where I belong.”
“This is where you’re vulnerable,” he shot back. “Blake’s building has actual security. Doormen, cameras, controlled access. Not just a brass lock that any determined person could break.”
“The shop has cameras,” I reminded him. “You had them installed yourself, remember?”
“It’s not enough,” he said. “I want you safe. I want you alive. The penthouse would be a controlled environment.”
“A controlled environment,” I repeated. “Where you know exactly where I am at all times.”
“Where people who might want to hurt you can’t easily get to you,” he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register. “Is that really so unreasonable? Dammit, Leo! I'm not the enemy here.”
The words hung in the air between us, sharp and cutting. For a moment, I thought he might step back, might decide this argument wasn’t worth having. Instead, he pressed me fully against the workbench, his thigh sliding between my legs.
“You want to know the difference between protection and possession?” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent heat spiraling through my belly. “Protection is making sure you don’t have to deal with a bunch of bureaucratic nonsense. Possession is what I’m going to do to you right now.”
Before I could respond, his mouth was on mine, hot and demanding. I should have pushed him away, should have maintained my anger, but the bond between us was singing with need and my body was responding to his alpha aggression with a surge of arousal that made my knees weak.
“Dominic,” I gasped against his lips, “Marcus is outside?—”
“I locked the door when I came in,” he said, his hands already working at the buttons of my shirt. “Not leaving here without having you first.”
The raw honesty in his voice sent heat straight to my core. “Someone could see through the windows?—”
“Not where we’re going,” he said, pulling me toward the back of the shop, toward the extension my grandfather had said his parents had added in the 1930s. The space was separated from the main shop by a partial wall, invisible from the street windows, private enough for what he intended.
I let him pull me into the back room, my anger and arousal tangling together in a way that made everything more intense. When he pushed me against the wall beside my storage shelves, I was already breathing hard, already getting slick with want.
“You think I’m controlling?” he said, his hands spanning my waist, holding me in place. “You haven’t seen controlling yet.”
“Prove it,” I challenged, meeting his gaze with all the defiance I could muster.
His smile was sharp and predatory, his fangs on full display. “Oh, sweetheart, I was hoping you’d say that.”
His hands went to my shirt, not bothering with buttons this time. I heard fabric tear as he pulled it open, felt the cool air hit my skin as he pushed the ruined cotton off my shoulders.