Page 23 of Hellfire to Come (Infernal Regions for the Unprepared #5)

Chapter Twenty-Three

brOOKLYN

In slow, deliberate waves, I became aware of Dominic’s body pressed to mine—solid, grounding, real.

His breath ghosted over my lips with each exhale, warm and steady, a lifeline in the lingering dark.

It was as if the world had narrowed to just this: the cadence of his breathing, the faint thrum of his heartbeat against my chest, the way his presence filled the space around me with silent, unyielding devotion.

My body, aching and frayed at the edges, pushed away everything else, the lingering pain, the dizzying exhaustion, even the roiling uncertainty.

All of it receded, eclipsed by the gravity of him.

Every nerve in me, every flicker of awareness, redirected toward him with single-minded clarity, like a compass needle finding true north.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

My soul knew his voice even in silence. And my body answered his nearness not with fear or hesitation but with aching familiarity. A recognition deeper than blood or bond.

In the hush that followed, I remained still.

Wrapped in the quiet gravity of him. My forehead rested lightly against his, the smallest space between us charged with heat, with tension, with something far older than the bond that tied us.

This wasn’t desire born from adrenaline or circumstance.

This was the deep, aching need of one soul recognizing its other half and daring, finally, to reach for it.

His hand slid slowly up my back, the calluses on his palm catching the fabric of my shirt as if even his fingers didn’t trust this moment to last. He held me like I might dissolve in his arms. Like if he let go, I would slip back into the darkness and never return.

“You’re still trembling,” he murmured against my cheek, his voice rough, velveted with concern.

“Not from fear,” I whispered. “Not anymore.”

His fingers stilled. Then curled tighter.

I tilted my head just enough that our mouths hovered in the same breath, close, but not touching.

A held note waiting to resolve. My lips were parted, breath shallow, the ache of anticipation shimmering just beneath my skin.

I could feel the pulse in his neck. Could feel how tightly he held himself still.

And that restraint… it undid me.

Because I knew how hard it was for him. To want and not take. To burn and not consume.

“You can touch me,” I said, the words barely more than breath. “I’m here. I’m not breaking.”

His hand came to my jaw slowly, reverently.

His thumb traced the curve of my cheekbone like it was sacred, like I was sacred.

That reverence was the most devastating thing about him.

Dominic had teeth. He had claws. He had a past bathed in blood and fury.

But when he touched me… it was always like this.

As if I were the last star in his sky and he had only one lifetime left to worship me.

He kissed me then. Not hard, not urgent, but deep. Slow. Anchoring.

His mouth moved over mine like a vow. No promises spoken, yet each brush of his lips said everything: I’m here. I see you. I won’t let go.

I melted into him, my hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer until nothing remained between us but skin and breath and the heat building like a storm about to break.

The taste of him, warm, earthy, wild, slid over my tongue and I moaned quietly into the kiss, a sound that made him shudder.

Dominic responded with a low growl, the sound vibrating against my mouth as his other hand found my waist, pulling me fully into his lap. The pressure of his body against mine lit something deeper, more primal, a hunger coiled in my belly I hadn’t let myself feel in too long.

Still, he didn’t rush. His touch never lost that reverence.

Fingers glided up my ribs, over my back, mapping every inch of me with maddening patience, learning me all over again.

His kisses traveled to my jaw, to my throat, leaving fire in their wake.

My head tilted to give him more space, and he took it, his mouth finding the sensitive hollow below my ear and making me gasp.

The air thickened, the room forgotten, and even time itself stood suspended.

He drew back just enough to look at me, his eyes almost black, the green swallowed by his pupils with want, but beneath it… fear. Not of me. But the fear of hurting me. Of pushing too far, too soon.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice barely holding together. “I can stop. Say the word and I will.”

Gods, I loved him for that.

And it made me want him even more.

I cupped his face in both hands, thumbs grazing the stubble along his jaw. “I’m not made of glass, Dominic. I want this. I want you. ”

A flicker of relief. A flare of something deeper.

His breath still ghosted over my lips, warm and steady, each exhale a tether holding me to the present.

The storm inside me, the grief, the rage, the fear, began to unravel thread by thread, tugged loose by the gentle weight of his touch.

Every part of me that had curled into a defensive ball softened against him now.

Not because I was suddenly safe. Not because the danger had passed.

But because he was here. And that was all that mattered. That was enough.

Dominic didn’t move, not at first. He simply watched me with eyes that had seen too much violence, too much loss, and yet still held a reverence for softness, especially mine.

When his fingers brushed a lock of hair from my temple, the fire red strand sliding tenderly between his fingers, I felt my whole-body sigh beneath his touch.

I hadn’t even known I was holding my breath until that very moment.

“I thought I lost you today,” he murmured, voice rough with everything he hadn’t said.

I closed my eyes, pressing my cheek against his palm. “I think I almost lost myself.”

“Don’t say that.” His thumb swept gently along my jaw. “You’re still here. Still you. Even when the world tries to take pieces.”

I opened my eyes to meet his, the ache in my chest blooming into something warmer, heavier. “That’s only true because you’re here to remind me of what I have to lose.”

He leaned in then, slow and certain, giving me time to stop him but I didn’t want him to stop. His lips met mine, not with urgency, but with barely contained passion. A kiss meant not to claim, but to ask. To assure.

Every other time we had come so close to death or unknown terrors loomed over our heads that our lovemaking was always hot, explosive, a single-minded purpose of claiming as if that would remind us we were still alive.

This time he was taking his time. That was telling how strong the fear of losing me was inside him.

This time he was reassuring himself I am still here.

And I answered with the same gentleness, with the same quiet hunger.

His hand slid to the small of my back, drawing me closer.

The heat of his body seeped into mine like sunlight through a storm.

When our foreheads touched again, our breathing found a shared rhythm.

One heartbeat, split between two bodies.

I felt the quiet restraint in him, the tension barely leashed beneath his skin, like he was holding back a wildfire out of respect for the scorched earth I had become.

But I didn’t want restraint.

I wanted him.

“Touch me,” I whispered, the words caught on a breath I couldn’t quite release.

His hands trembled slightly as they obeyed, one splaying across the curve of my back, the other cupping the side of my neck. He kissed me again, deeper this time, a groan slipping from his throat and humming into mine. The sound pulled something low and desperate from my core.

Dominic kissed like someone who worshipped storms. Like someone who knew what it meant to survive them.

And I kissed back like someone trying to find home.

We didn’t speak after that. Words became obsolete. The brush of skin against skin, the slide of breath between parted mouths, the way our bodies curved instinctively to meet one another. That was the language now.

His jacket fell from his shoulders first, landing with a soft thud on the floor.

My fingertips chased the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt, marveling at how alive he felt.

How alive I felt. Every sigh he gave sent a tremor down my spine.

Every quiet gasp, every low growl deep in his chest, etched itself into my bones.

And I clung to him, not like holding a lifeline, but like something fierce, like someone who had already walked through fire and wasn’t afraid to burn again, as long as it was with him.

He kissed down the line of my throat, slow and reverent, his breath feathering across the sensitive skin as he murmured my name like a promise. My hands threaded through his hair, desperate to anchor myself in the moment before it slipped away and became nothing.

“Brooklyn,” he said, the syllables a graveled prayer.

“You have me. I’m here,” I whispered. “Still here.”

He made love to me slowly, reverently. Every shift of his hips pushing him deeper and forcing my channel to clench from the fullness.

Every brush of his lips left scorched skin in their wake.

My oversensitive skin was ready to combust and pressure started coiling like a too tight spring in my lower belly.

Our movements became erratic, the touch more frantic as we chased the promise of ecstasy together until I was pushed over the edge on a gasp that was more a moan and he followed me through it.

“Still here.” I rasped in his ear when I caught my breath.

And for that moment while wrapped in his arms, our bodies connected impossibly close that you couldn’t tell where he ended and I began, drowning in the steady beat of his heart against mine, I believed it.