Page 129 of Yearn

He definitely hadn’t handed it to Scott like he was doing him a favor.

But surely, he waited in the backyard, watched Scott from the window, and waited for him to drink the drugged beer bottle.

My chest went tight.

I glanced back at the bed and felt heat climb my throat. And the terrifying thing was. . .Dominic looked at me now as if putting Scott to sleep wasn’t just acceptable.

It wascompletelyjustified.

My stomach knotted.

Holy shit.

That should have been a stop sign.

The end of everything.

No decent person would think that was okay.

And yet—my thighs pressed together. Heat flooded there because part of me was glad. Glad Scott was unconscious upstairs. Glad I didn’t have to hear his gaslighting tonight, smell his sweat, and endure his cruel smugness.

What kind of woman does that make me?

I folded my arms tight against my chest, but it didn’t stop the truth in my body: I wanted Dominic. I wanted the man who thought slipping something into my ex’s beer bottle was an act of protection for me.

I looked up at Dominic.

Silent, he stood there like temptation sculpted in muscle and shadow, eyes dark enough to swallow the light of the candles. And I thought about my boys sleeping safely above us, untouched by Scott’s chaos tonight, because of him.

Isn’t that fatherhood too? Sacrifice? Ruthlessness? Clearing the path for peace? Or is that just psychotic violence dressed up as devotion?

The philosopher in me wanted to scream no.

But the woman in me—the tired, aching, desperate-for-relief woman—leaned toward yes.

I stared at him and felt the split in me yawning wider.

One part horrified.

One part wet.

The jazz music curled around us. I realized how quiet I had gone. How hard my heart was working. How absolutely seen I felt, and how dangerous that was.

I broke the silence. “Dominic. . .”

“Yes.”

“What did you do to Scott?”

“That’s not important.”

“It is.” I shivered. “What did you do?

Dominic didn’t rush to answer. Instead, he leaned one broad shoulder against the wall. The pose was deceptively casual. His hand flexed once at his side, veins swelling, then stilled again—like he was reigning something in.

When I didn’t look away, he left the wall and stepped closer.

Just one step, but the air changed with it.