Page 14 of Claimed by the Enemy (Moretti Bratva #2)

Chapter Twelve

Sophie

B lood. There’s so much blood on his face, soaking through his shirt, staining my hands where I’m touching him.

“We need to get you upstairs,” I say, wrapping my arm around Dom’s waist as he sways slightly. “Can you walk?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but he’s leaning heavily against me.

“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding all over my floor.” I look over his shoulder at Patrice, who’s hovering in the doorway with wide, concerned eyes. “Patrice, could you bring the first aid kit to Dom’s room? And some clean towels, ice, whatever you can find.”

“Of course, Mrs. Moretti. Right away.”

“Raff.” I turn to Dom’s best friend, who’s still staring at us like he can’t process what he’s seeing. “Thank you for staying, but I can take it from here.”

“Are you sure? Maybe I should-”

“I’ll take care of him,” I say firmly. “He needs rest, not an audience.”

Raff nods, though I can see the questions burning in his eyes. “Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“I will.”

He grabs his jacket and heads for the door, casting one last worried look back at Dom before disappearing into the afternoon light.

“Come on,” I tell Dom, tightening my grip around his waist. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He doesn’t argue, which tells me more about his condition than any amount of blood could. Dom always argues. Always has to be in control. The fact that he’s letting me guide him up the stairs without a single protest means he’s worse off than he’s admitting.

I help him sit on the edge of the bed, then immediately start working on the buttons of his blood-stained shirt.

“Sophie, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up.” My fingers are shaking slightly as I push the fabric off his shoulders, revealing more bruises blooming across his ribs. “Just sit there and let me help you.”

Dom falls silent, watching me with those dark eyes as I examine the damage. Besides the cut on his forehead, there are scrapes on his knuckles, a forming bruise on his jaw, and what looks like the beginning of a spectacular black eye.

“Who did this to you?” I ask, touching the bruise carefully.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Why?”

Because seeing you hurt made me realize that losing you would destroy me.

“Because you’re my husband,” I say instead. “And someone just tried to kill you!”

“They weren’t trying to kill me. If they wanted me dead, I’d be dead.”

“Then what were they trying to do?”

“Send a message.”

Patrice appears in the doorway before I can ask what kind of message, her arms full of medical supplies. She sets everything down on the nightstand, then hovers uncertainly.

“Should I call a doctor?” she asks. “Or the police?”

“No,” Dom says immediately, his voice sharp. “No police.”

“Dom—” I start.

“No police, Sophie. This stays between us.”

I want to argue, want to demand that he file a report and let professionals handle whatever this is. But the look in his eyes stops me.

“Thank you, Patrice,” I say. “That’ll be all.”

She nods and withdraws, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

I wet one of the towels with warm water and begin cleaning the blood from Dom’s face, working carefully around the cut on his forehead.

He sits still, letting me work, though I can feel the tension radiating from him.

I dab antiseptic on the cut, and he hisses through his teeth.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“Stop saying that. Nothing about this is fine.”

I clean his knuckles next, noting the way his hands are scratched and swollen. He fought back. Hard, by the looks of it.

“You got some good hits in,” I observe.

“I always do.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“It’s supposed to be the truth.”

I apply butterfly bandages to the worst of the cuts, then hand him an ice pack for his jaw. “Hold this.”

He takes it without argument, which again tells me more than he probably wants to reveal.

I reach for the ibuprofen from the supplies Patrice brought and shake out two pills. “Take these with some water. They’ll help with the pain and swelling.”

Dom swallows the pills obediently, then presses the ice pack back against his jaw.

“Lie down,” I tell him. “You need to rest.”

“Sophie-”

“Dom.” I put my hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating beneath my palm. “Please. Just rest.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but exhaustion is winning the battle. I take the ice pack from him and set it on the nightstand as he stretches out on the bed, his head sinking into the pillows like he can’t hold it up anymore.

“Stay,” he says quietly as I start to pull away.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And I’m not. I settle into the armchair beside his bed, watching as his breathing gradually evens out and his face relaxes into sleep. Even unconscious, he looks troubled. Like whatever happened to him today is playing out behind his closed eyelids.

***

Dom wakes up disoriented, blinking slowly in the darkness. It takes him a moment to focus on me, still curled up in the chair beside his bed.

“What time is it?” His voice is rough with sleep.

“A little after two.” I lean forward, studying his face in the dim light filtering through the curtains. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.” He tries to sit up, wincing. “Why are you still here?”

“Someone had to make sure you didn’t die in your sleep.”

“I’m not going to die from a few bruises, Sophie.”

“A few bruises?” I stand up, anger flaring hot in my chest. “Dom, you came home covered in blood. You looked like you’d been through a war zone.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Stop.” The word comes out sharper than I intended. “Stop lying to me. Stop pretending this isn’t serious.”

Dom swings his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up fully. “Sophie-”

“No. I’m done with the evasions and the half-truths and the ‘i t’s nothing’ bullshit.

” I’m pacing now, all the fear and frustration from the day pouring out.

“You were attacked. Violently. And instead of calling the police or going to a hospital, you come home bleeding and refuse to explain what happened.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Everything’s complicated with you! The marriage is complicated. Your feelings are complicated. Apparently, staying alive is complicated, too.”

“Sophie, please—”

“I sat here for four hours watching you sleep, terrified that you were going to stop breathing. Four hours wondering if whoever did this to you was going to come here next. And you won’t even tell me why.”

Dom is quiet for a long moment, just looking at me in the darkness. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.

“The threatening letters haven’t stopped.”

My blood goes cold. “And you didn’t think to mention this to me?”

“I was trying to find out who was behind them.” Dom runs a hand through his hair, careful of his injuries. “I went to see Giuseppe Caruso today. One of my father’s old associates. I thought he might have answers.”

“Did he?”

“He had warnings. And questions. And suggestions that I should ask my uncle what really happened the night my parents died.”

“Your uncle?”

“Riccardo. My father’s brother. The man who raised me after…” He trails off, looking away. “After your father killed my parents.”

The words are so shocking, I can barely process them.

“What? That’s… That’s not what happened,” I say automatically. “My parents were the ones who were killed.”

“Nope,” Dom interrupts quietly. “At least that’s what my uncle told me growing up, just like yours told you. Only I wasn’t as vengeful as you were. I figured you weren’t responsible for your father’s crimes.”

“But that means…”

“That means we’ve been lied to. Because Sophie, if my father killed your parents and your father killed mine, and they’re both dead anyway…” He trails off, the impossibility of it sinking in.

“They wanted our families to hate each other.”

“They succeeded. Until now.”

We stare at each other across the darkness, both of us seeing the same truth at the same time. We’ve been enemies based on stories we were told as children. Stories that might not even be true.

“If you knew this, then why did you marry me?” I ask.

“Because someone wants you dead, Sophie. The letters weren’t just about me. They were about both of us. About finishing what they else started.” Dom stands up, moving closer. “I married you to protect you.”

“But you thought my family killed yours.”

“I thought a lot of things. I thought I could control the situation. Control you. Keep my enemies close and all that.” He’s close enough now that I can see the bruises on his face, the butterfly bandages holding his cuts closed. “What I didn’t expect was to start caring about you.”

“Caring about me?”

“When I got that phone call today that you were in danger, I nearly lost my mind. All I could think about was getting home to you. Making sure you were safe.” His hand comes up to cup my cheek. “I’ve never felt fear like that before.”

“Dom…”

“I know this is complicated. I know we both have reasons to hate each other’s families. But Sophie, I can’t pretend anymore that this marriage is just business.”

I close my eyes, leaning into his touch despite everything my rational mind is telling me.

I open my eyes, looking at this man who married his enemy to keep her safe.

Who took a beating today because he was trying to find answers. Who’s been carrying the weight of keeping both of us alive without asking for help?

Instead of saying anything else, I kiss him. Soft and careful, mindful of his injuries but unable to resist any longer. He tastes like copper and antiseptic.

Dom pulls back after a moment. “Sophie, stop.”

“Why?”

“You’re emotional, and I’m hurt. This isn’t the right time.”

“When is the right time, Dom? When we’re not fighting? When we’re not lying to each other? When someone’s not trying to kill us?” I frame his face with my hands. You know that may never happen.”

“Sophie-”

I kiss him again, harder this time, pouring all my fear and relief and gratitude into the connection between us. This time, he doesn’t pull away.

His arms come around me, and suddenly we’re falling back onto the bed together. I’m mindful of his injuries, gentle with the bruises and cuts, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he kisses me back.

“Are you sure?” he asks against my lips.

“I’m sure.”

I kiss him like I mean to erase every lie, every bruise, every mile between who we were and who we might become.

Dom is still letting me lead. For once, he doesn’t try to control anything.

I draw back, standing beside the bed. He watches me, his chest rising and falling, the bruises along his ribs stark in the low light.

I reach for the hem of my shirt and lift it over my head. Slowly. I want him to see. To know this is mine to give. I unhook my bra next, letting it drop, then slide my pants down and step out of them. I’m bare before him, and his eyes darken with something close to awe.

“You’re… breathtaking.” His voice is husky, reverent.

I stand at the side of the bed, one hand braced on the mattress for balance, the other drifting to the waistband of his sweatpants. His eyes follow my every move, dark with want.

“May I?” I ask, though we both know I’m not really asking.

He nods, his eyes locked to mine.

I tug the fabric down carefully, mindful of his injuries. His cock springs free—hard, flushed, needy. My mouth goes dry.

I wrap my fingers around him, stroking slowly from base to tip. He shudders.

“Fuck, Sophie…” His head falls back, lips parting. “Don’t stop.”

“I don’t plan to.” I keep my pace steady, loving the way he twitches under my touch, how he’s already so undone, and I’ve barely started. His hips lift instinctively, then falter as pain catches up. I place a palm flat against his thigh.

“Easy,” I say. “Let me do the work.”

He groans, and I feel it in my bones.

After a few more strokes, his hand finds mine, curling over my knuckles. “Please, Sophie. I need you.”

I shift, crawling over him carefully. His hands hover at my waist, unsure whether to hold me or let me move.

“You don’t have to do anything,” I tell him, bracing my knees on either side of his hips. “Just stay still. I’ve got you.”

His eyes burn into mine. “Yes, ma’am.”

The corners of my mouth lift, and I reach down, guiding him to where I’m already wet and aching. I sink slowly, inch by inch, watching his face twist with pleasure. The stretch is deep, perfect. My breath catches.

When I’m fully seated, I pause, letting us both adjust.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel—unreal.”

I begin to move, slow and controlled, grinding my hips in a rhythm meant to drive him mad. His hands finally settle on my thighs, not guiding, just grounding himself.

Every time I roll my hips, I feel him hit that perfect spot. And every time, his breath stutters, like he’s holding back a tidal wave.

“Sophie… you’re going to break me.”

“No,” I murmur, leaning forward just enough to whisper into his ear. “I’m going to put you back together.”

The pleasure builds between us, tense and electric. I set the pace—slow at first, deliberate—until the ache sharpens and I begin to move harder, riding him with intent. His body coils beneath mine, muscles tight, breath ragged.

“Don’t stop,” he pants. “Please—don’t stop.”

I reach for his wrists, guiding his hands up to my breasts. He groans when his palms cup me, fingers brushing over my nipples. The contact sends a fresh jolt through me, and I arch into his touch.

“That’s it,” I whisper. “Touch me. I want you to feel everything.”

He does. Reverently. Like I’m something he’s been aching to hold.

I lean forward, bracing myself on his chest, and kiss him—deep and open, hips never slowing. Our mouths move together as if the kiss is part of the rhythm, just another pulse of need we can’t escape.

“God, Sophie…” His voice is wrecked, full of awe.

I’m close. So close. Each thrust sends heat spiraling higher, and when I clench around him, he gasps, hips jerking once beneath me.

“Sophie—”

“Let go,” I breathe against his lips. “I’m right there with you.”

And I am. The pleasure fractures inside me all at once, rushing through my body in waves. I cry out, riding every ripple of it, and seconds later, he follows—groaning deep in his throat as he spills inside me, surrendering completely.

I stay straddled over him for a moment, panting, forehead resting against his. His arms come around me, firm now, grounding us both.

When I finally collapse gently onto his chest, careful not to hurt him, he doesn’t let go.

We lie like that, tangled and breathless, skin still buzzing.

“This doesn’t solve anything,” he says eventually, voice raw.

“I know.”

“We still don’t know who’s trying to kill us.”

“I know.”

“We still have every reason to be enemies.”

I lift my head, meet his eyes in the darkness.

“Do you want to be?”

His fingers brush slow circles against my bare back.

“No,” he says. “I want to figure out the truth. With you.”