𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐈𝐀 -
Intricate and witty, her life has twisted upside down after her father's past scarred his family. At the young age of twenty, Violet is informed that eight years ago, she was promised to marry a Mafia Don's son by h...
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Dominic's grin widened as he tapped his cheekbone, a playful glint in his eyes. "Right here," he repeated, his tone daring. "As hard as you can," he urged, a hint of challenge in his voice. Over the course of the few days that had followed, Dominic was insistent that I learn how to defend myself.
"I'm not punching you, Dominic," I replied, emphasizing his demand while shaking my head with a bemused smile. "Why not?" he persisted, his expression teasing, as if he found the idea of a playful punch an amusing proposition.
"Because I've already done it once, and I don't feel the need to do it again."
"That practically felt like a kiss, Red."
Responding to his audacious comment, I shot him a hard glare, the intensity of my gaze contradicting the teasing atmosphere. "I'm good enough with a gun," I defended.
Dominic wasn't one to be easily persuaded. "I know you are. But when that's taken, and I'm not there?" he countered, his tone taking on a more serious note. "I need to know that you're able to protect yourself when you don't have a weapon on you."
"Fine, but I'm not hitting you."
Dominic's footsteps echoed in the room as he walked purposefully toward one of the carefully hung leather punching bags. The atmosphere held a quiet intensity, the anticipation of the upcoming action hanging in the air like a charged current. "Here then." He tapped the bag, running the palm of his hand along with fabric.
I met Dominic's gaze, a flicker of uncertainty in my eyes. His expression remained steady, a silent encouragement that translated into a subtle nod.
Approaching the punching bag, the leather surface cool against my fingertips, I took a moment to gauge the distance and angle. With a controlled determination, I executed a cross hit, my knuckles meeting the cold leather with a satisfying thud. The impact reverberated through my hands and up my arms, a visceral connection to the physicality of the exercise.
This was so fucking awkward.
Dominic observed with a discerning eye, his focus unwavering. "Again."
"Don't breathe from here," he directed, his inked hand finding its place on chest, a firm but gentle contact with the warmth of his touch that lingered. His hand down to my stomach, a deliberate shift that emphasized a different focal point for my breath. The touch remained firm, guiding my awareness to the subtle rise and fall in my abdomen.
