She was lost and so was he.
Who knew that two broken hearts can connect to one.
Arabella's world has been rigged since the day she was born. Her fate had been decided for her much longer before she even had been conceived in the womb. So it came as...
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My throat scratches as I slip out of Vivian's bed, heading for the kitchen. I trudge along the floor, feeling sleep already beginning to fade, leaving me in the aftermath of a groggy early morning.
Passing the hallway, I pause when I see the faint light peeking out from under the door of Dominic's study. My brows furrow—it's past 3 a.m. Has he been in there all night?
I quietly push the door open, and my eyes immediately land on Dominic's reclined figure. He isn't wearing a shirt, and his arms flex as he tips his head back, taking a swig of alcohol. Even from here, I see the brown liquid meet his lips. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing.
I take a deep breath and step inside. The door shuts behind me with a soft click, snapping him from his thoughts. He turns to me, and our eyes lock—his are completely dilated. He stands to his full height, swaying slightly. I step closer, ready to catch him if he collapses. He notices and scoffs, turning away to take another gulp straight from the bottle.
"You can leave," he slurs, but I can still hear the annoyance in his voice.
"I would," I reply calmly, "but you're drunk out of your mind, can barely stand, can't form a proper sentence, and are definitely not in any condition to be left alone."
He clenches the bottle tighter. "I don't need a fucking babysitter, Arabella."
"Sure you don't," I say sarcastically, watching the vein in his neck pulse in anger.
"Last time I checked, this isn't your house. Especially not this room. So get the fuck out." His raspy voice cuts like a blade as he turns to glare at me.
"I swear to God, Arabella!" he shouts, and when I step toward him, his grip on the bottle tightens until it shatters in his hand.
I flinch back, my mind flashing to another figure—one far more sinister. Dominic doesn't look like himself anymore. For a terrifying second, he mirrors Nicholas. That same cold stare. That same tension before pain followed. The expression Nicholas wore before a beating... or worse.
But I know Dominic isn't him. He wouldn't hurt me. He may have rage burning beneath his skin, but not enough to lose control. Not like that. I repeat it to myself, over and over:
He wouldn't.
He wouldn't.
He wouldn't.
Still, I can't help the slight tremble in my hands. I take a cautious step back, pinching my eyes closed and inhaling deeply to quiet the storm building inside me.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, and when my arms cross in front of me protectively, I feel him move closer.
"Please don't be scared," he tries again, his voice cracking ever so slightly. I've never heard him sound this vulnerable—except for that night in my room. The night he held me first, then let me hold him. If only he knew that moment meant more to me than he could ever understand. It wasn't just him who needed someone. It was me too.
