Fatally Yours

Chapter 45

•INDIANA•

The next morning after breakfast, I decided to take a walk around the house. The sun was shining brightly, casting a warm glow over everything, and the day felt promising.

Demitra was outside by the pool, laughing and splashing around with her niece, Dol. The twins were lazily lounging by the poolside, each absorbed in their phones.

Probably their thirteenth phone so far thanks to Dominik destroying them all the time.

I hadn't seen him during breakfast, and now, as I strolled through the house, I found myself wondering what he could be up to.

He was never one to just casually disappear, but something told me that today, I wasn't going to get a straightforward answer.

My curiosity led me outside, where I stumbled upon a large open hall connected to the side of the house—one I hadn't noticed before. The space was spacious, with high ceilings and an abundance of light streaming in through wide windows.

Shelves lined the walls, displaying a variety of handmade clay items—vases, sculptures, and intricate bowls. The sight was almost surreal, like something out of a gallery.

As I ventured further into the room, I froze when I saw Dominik.

He was sitting on a small stool in the center of the room, his focus entirely on his task. He was kneading gray clay, his fingers delicately pressing and pulling at the dough-like material, working it with precision.

He wore an apron over his black pants and white sweater, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The sight of him, so absorbed in the process, was captivating in a way I hadn't expected.

There was something incredibly different about him here—something calm and serene. His usual intensity was replaced by a quiet focus as he shaped the clay, his hands moving with a gentle rhythm, molding it into something purposeful.

The contrast between the sharp edges of his personality and the smooth, delicate clay made me watch him in awe.

It was almost hypnotic to witness. Each press of his fingers, each careful twist of his wrist, spoke volumes about his concentration. He was completely unaware of my presence, so absorbed in his art that I almost didn't want to disturb him.

For a moment, I just stood there, quietly observing him, completely fascinated. I had never seen this side of him before, and it made me wonder about the layers he kept hidden, how much more there was to him than just the man I saw in those high-stakes moments of his life.

The delicate way he worked the clay—so much care in the movement—made me feel oddly connected to him, as though I was witnessing something private, something that no one else could see.

He was a man of many complexities, and this quiet, almost intimate act of creating was one I had never expected to see.

I took a few steps closer to him, the soft sound of my footsteps barely registering in the otherwise quiet room. The moment I moved, his head snapped up, and our gazes locked.

His expression softened, a lazy smile pulling at the corner of his lips when he saw me. He paused the machine, his hands still covered in the gray clay, and stopped his work.

"Have you been standing there long?" he asked, his voice warm and teasing, like he hadn't just been focused on something so intricate.

I shook my head. "No, I just came in."

We stood there for a moment, silently studying each other, before I broke the stillness.

"Where did you learn how to make clay?" I asked, genuinely curious.