The moment we stumble into my bedroom, the air turns electric again. He’s back on me, urgent and demanding, his touch everywhere at once. We collide with the small vanity in the corner, the furniture groaning under our weight as I pull him into me. In the blur of it, as I try to find my footing and pull him closer, I shove back.
My foot catches the heavy, floor-length mirror leaning against the far wall.
It tips with agonizing slowness before crashing.
The glass doesn't just shatter; the heavy wooden frame punches straight through the drywall with a sickeningcrunch. I freeze, the adrenaline flatlining into instant shock. Dominic pulls back, his chest heaving, his eyes darting from me to the gaping hole in the drywall.
I look down, expecting to see insulation or the wooden studs of the frame. Instead, the dead space behind the wall is filled with a riot of color.
Canvases are stacked deep in the darkness—dusty, forgotten paintings of landscapes and abstract shapes, hidden away like a secret that was never meant to be found.
The room, which had felt electric seconds ago, suddenly feels different.
"What are those?" I wonder aloud, as I look from the wall to him. I’m still breathless, my skin still flushed, but whatever just had me leaning into him is gone. "Why are these in here?"
Dominic doesn't look surprised. He just looks exhausted, the fire in his eyes dying out into a hollow, haunting sort of clarity. He looks at the canvases, then back at me, his hand dropping from my waist as if the touch is suddenly too heavy to maintain.
"You asked me to explain what’s wrong with me," he says, his voice quiet in a way that feels wrong on him. "Why my hands go numb. Why I spend so much time in the water or the sauna."
He gestures toward the broken wall, toward the vibrant, trapped life hidden behind the plaster.
"It’s not just to train. I’m trying to stay loose. I'm trying to keep the clock from stopping." He pauses, his gaze dropping back to the paintings as his breath hitches. "You wanted the truth? I'd prefer to show you."
Chapter twenty
Carter
The trees blur into a continuous smudge of green as we wind deeper into the countryside, the engine of the car a low, steady hum that feels like the only thing keeping me grounded. I shouldn't be here. I have a lecture on corporate restructuring in twenty minutes, a stack of notes I haven't touched, and a GPA that doesn't account for spontaneous road trips with F1 drivers. Yet, here I am, watching the wrought-iron gates sweep over the hood of the car. I’m not sure when my survival instinct got swapped for whatever this is, but as I watch the road, I can’t bring myself to regret the empty seat in the lecture hall.
"Where are we going?" I ask, my voice finally breaking the silence that’s been stretching between us since we left the mansion.
He doesn't take his eyes off the road, but the corner of his mouth twitches. "You’ll see, Shortcut."
Before I can push for more, his right hand leaves the gear shift. It doesn't go back to the wheel. Instead, it settles on my thigh, his palm a heavy, grounding weight through the fabric of my jeans. He doesn't move it. He doesn't squeeze. He just leaves it there, a silent, steady claim that makes the air feel twice as thick. My pulse jumps under his touch, but I don't pull away. I just lean my head back against the leather and watch the world go by, feeling the warmth of his hand seep through my skin.
The facility doesn’t look like a hospital; it looks like a manor house that decided to retire in the woods. But the illusion cracks the second we step into the main lobby. A woman in soft gray scrubs crosses the marble floor with a clipboard tucked to her chest, murmuring something low and efficient to the man beside her. Across the room, someone reclines in a wide armchair with a blanket draped over their legs, an IV stand parked neatly at their side like it belongs there.We move into a corridor that smells of expensive beeswax and fresh linen—crisp, clean, and just shy of sterile, like the place is trying to dress medicine up as luxury.
Now, we’re standing in front of a door. It’s heavy, polished mahogany that reflects the dim light of the corridor, looking more like the entrance to a private library than a patient’s room.
He doesn't knock immediately. He adjusts his posture, his chest rising in a slow, controlled breath that he seems to hold for a second too long. When he finally reaches out, his knuckles rap against the wood in a rhythmic, familiar pattern.
The latch clicks. A woman in scrubs pulls the door back, her professional face melting into a genuine smile the second she looks up.
"He's here," she says softly, stepping back to let us pass.
Dominic doesn't just pass her; he stops, leaning down to pull her into a brief, easy hug. "Good to see you, Beth. How’s the knee holding up?"
"Better since you sent that specialist's number," she says, patting his arm before stepping aside. "She’s been watching the clock for you. You know how she gets.”
He pauses in the threshold. He turns his head just enough to catch my eye, and something in his expression gives. He shoots me a small, lopsided grin—one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. It’s a look that doesn't belong to a billboard or a podium; it’s raw and startlingly young. My stomach performs a slow, heavy flip, the kind that reminds me how much I’ve underestimated the pull of the guy beneath the track.
"Ready?" he murmurs, his voice barely a vibration.
The room is an explosion of light, filtered through massive floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the valley. It’s luxurious but lived-in—velvet armchairs, a soft cashmere throw tossed over the foot of a bed, and books piled high on every available surface. It feels warm, like a sanctuary, but there’s a distinct lack of the one thing I expected to see. The air is clean and floral, smelling of the jasmine outside.
Near the bay window, a woman sits at a small table, her back to us. She’s staring out at the trees, her hands resting perfectly still on the table’s edge.
"Mom," Dominic says.
