Dom (Alliance, #3)

by S.J. Tilly

“Sorry.” She slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she says again, muffled this time. And then Bri starts to laugh. And nosy marketing girl starts. And then the other designer, who is wiping her coffee-covered hands onto her already ruined shirt, snorts. “Fuck, Val. Why are you even on this call?”

“Well, I don’t like working. So if you’re ever looking to turn your duo into a throuple, just let me know. I’d love a sugar daddy.” “I don’t share.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Damn.” Bri drags the word out. “Sounding like a member of the family already.”

I run my hand over my hair. I need Valentine to rub my head again. I need Valentine to look at me with a smile again.

Me: You didn’t eat enough yesterday. Groceries were delivered this morning, but order something for lunch. I’ll be home in a couple hours.

I hit send, then wait to see if she replies. She doesn’t. I deserve that.

I stupidly expect to see My Valentine on the screen. It’s not her. But I still smile because it’s her big brother.

King sighs. “Just tell me what you need. And if we can help you, then we’ll help you. And then you’ll send Val back home.” My humor vanishes. “You’ll help because it’s what you’re honor bound to do. And Val will stay right where she is.”

“You tricked her!” King shouts through the phone. The barb hits. Though I don’t think he really understands how. How badly I tricked her. How I set a trap made specifically for her. How I planned it all and kept her in the dark.

This is the first time he’s messaged me since he picked me up from that hotel in Vegas. And his name, or not name, in my phone is the perfect reminder of how he targeted me. The perfect reminder that it was all just some plan to get The Alliance in his pocket.

Because reasons don’t make the betrayal any less painful.

But I do go into his contact and delete the name. I stare at my phone for a long time. There are lots of options, lots of insults I could ...

Valentine spins around with a bra in hand. “Is this your fuck room?” The anger in her question surprises me. And the question itself makes me want to laugh. But I don’t let my features show any reaction. “Would that bother you?” She throws the bra at me. “Yes.”

Val stomps her little foot. “Are you serious? Why would it bother me to have my husband fucking other people?” My husband.

“Say that again,” I growl. She steps back, bumping into the open dresser drawer. “What?” “Call me your husband.” I stop right in front of her. Val shoves at my chest. “No.” “Say it. And I’ll tell you whose room this is.” “Are you serious?” Her jaw clenches, but I know I have her. I lean closer. “Deadly.” She glares right into my eyes. “My husband,

I won’t have some skank’s stuff under my roof.” Her tone is acidic, and she’s trying to be a brat, but I’m too foc...

but while she’s busy shoving, her walls are falling. Because my husband and my roof… She’s starting to accept this...

“This is my mother’s room.” As always, Val wears her emotions on her face, and I can see her surprise. I point behind me. “That’s my mother’s bra you threw at me.” Her mouth forms an O. “Yeah. Oh.”

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear when I tattooed your name across my fucking throat. This”—I tap the letters—“is so everyone knows who I belong to.” I’ve never given someone this sort of claim over me, and it feels fantastic. “And inking the last words of my vow to you above my fucking dick.” I reach down and cup my hand over the front of my pants. “That’s all for you, Angel.

I’m so fucked.

Val pulls a stool out, but she’s a little short for it, so she has to use the bar across the bottom to climb on. I don’t laugh.

I pull one of the glass bottles out and show her the label of her favorite brand. “How… Is this another thing you asked me on our wedding night?” Her attitude is understandable, but it still pisses me off that it’s her first assumption. “No.” I shut the refrigerator. “You mentioned it to me once on the phone.”

“Shorty.” That shuts her up. “You can always talk to me.” I can see her retort building, but I keep talking. “But of course you can have your therapy. If you’d told me sooner, we could’ve flown back so you could go in person.”

When I hear the upstairs office door close, I walk down to my office and retrieve my own laptop. Back in the kitchen, I sit where Val just was and launch my security system. As I take the first bite of my gyro, the camera feed comes to life. And I watch as Valentine sits behind the desk, readying herself for therapy.

I think about waking up with Dom half on top of me. And about him kissing the back of my head while he thought I was sleeping.

I think about the delicious-smelling food waiting for me, because my new, definitely crazy, husband checked on me and wants to make sure I eat. And that he brought me a gyro and fries because he likes my softness and isn’t trying to put me on a diet.

“I’ve been… I had to go to a funeral yesterday.” I swallow. “And I know my mom’s funeral was six years ago, but recently, I’ve been having all those feelings again.” “Which feelings?” “Like I don’t belong anywhere.”

“No. Yesterday was… how it should be.” She tips her head. “What do you mean?” “It was sad. Horribly sad. But…” I have to break off. “Someone hugged me.” Tears I didn’t even know were building drip down my cheeks. “And it-it just… I didn’t even know her, but she hugged me, and I hugged her back, and it helped. Ya know? It was just a simple hug, and suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone anymore. And it just… It makes me so mad. Because why couldn’t I have had that?”

“Yeah. I, um, slept well last night.” My cheeks are already coloring from crying, so I don’t have to worry about blushing. Because I hate to admit that I sleep better with Dom at my side. Or draped across me. And the orgasm probably didn’t hurt.

It’s not often that my conscience springs to life, but watching Valentine cry while talking to her therapist about feeling like she doesn’t belong is starting to make me feel guilty.

Val nods and presses her hands against her cheeks. I fucking love it when she does that.

“Is this with the man you met on the plane?” I lean closer. She told her therapist about me?

“I think it’s like you said,” Val answers. And what did the good doctor say? “Trust?” the doc clarifies. “Yes.” Valentine’s answer is a whisper. But I hear it in my soul.

“Does this have anything to do with those tattoos I saw on your hand?” “Yeah.” Val huffs. “I got drunk and married the guy.” “Good.” I can’t see the laptop screen, so I can’t see the therapist. But I can hear her smile.

“And you just said you have trust.” I watch Val’s expression slip. “I trusted him.” Trusted. Past tense.

“My wife lives here now. You won’t just let yourself in again.” He smirks. “Afraid I might see more than you want me to?” “More than you want you to.” I step closer. “Because if you ever see more than you should, your sight will be the first sense I take.”

The heavy body sprawled across my back groans as my alarm blares from the nightstand. “Turn it off.” The sleep-soaked voice scrapes across my nerves. No one should sound so sexy the moment they wake up.

Before I met Dom, when I’d go to sleep imagining a life where I had someone to share my bed, I’d picture myself cuddled cutely into the man’s side. His arm would be around my shoulders. I’d sleep with my head on his shoulder and my mouth closed, not drooling on his chest at all. But no. My sleep habits haven’t suddenly changed, so I’m still face down, probably snoring. And the mafia kingpin who drugged me into marriage doesn’t pull me into his side. He doesn’t spoon me with his arm around my waist. Nope. He starfishes his body over mine. Smashing me into the damn mattress. And like everything else with Dom, I hate that I like it.

I’ve taken to sleeping in pants and long sleeves to minimize the chance of sex. But Dominic sleeps in nothing but his damn boxers. And I don’t need to start my day looking at our wedding vow inked above his dick.

He doesn’t deserve to have this hold on me. It’s time for me to push back.

Her eyes are busy watching where she’s going, so I can drink her in. And drink her in is exactly what I want to do. She’s wearing another pair of those high-ass wedge heels. This time in a bright red. And her skirt… I use my free hand to adjust my dick. I’ve seen her dresses, but this is different. It’s shiny, like leather, and it’s hugging her like it’s fucking painted on.

Her top is bright white. Some sort of flowy silk material that she’s tucked into her skirt. And it’s… It’s low. It’s cut really fucking low. Or maybe it’s just her big tits that make it seem that way.

I watch her do a second take at the large TV in the middle of the living room, probably wondering where it came from. So I hit the button to lower it back into the floor. I won’t be able to concentrate on watching anything after she leaves.

“Valentine, what are you wearing?” I stand from the couch. She looks down. “What’s wrong with it?” There’s a slight hesitancy in her tone that I don’t like. “Nothing’s wrong with it, Wife. You just look like the secretary in the beginning of a porno.”

She looks at Rob, then back at me. “At least you got me someone hot to look at.” I think my mouth might drop open. Did she just call Rob hot? My traitor of a second coughs to cover his laugh. “Thank you, ma’am.” “Please.” Val walks toward Rob. “Call me Mistress.” This time Rob does laugh. “The fuck he will,” I snap, moving toward the kitchen. “If anyone calls you that, I’ll slice out their tongues.”

I grab her left wrist and lift her hand. “No.” She tugs against my hold, causing her makeup-covered ring finger to wave in my face. “Dominic—” “No, Valentine. I gave you a choice. And since you won’t wear my ring, you will wear my name.”

I’m furious. And impressed with her defiance. And more than a little turned on.

“I can do it.” Her voice is breathy now. “You had your chance.” I keep one arm wrapped around her, high enough that her breasts are resting on top of my forearm. With my other arm, I reach out and turn the water on. I leave my fingers under the stream, waiting for the water to get warm, then I fill my palm with soap.

When it’s clean, I turn the faucet to cool, then hold her finger under the stream. “You’re going to irritate the skin using crap like that on a fresh tattoo. I can get the ointment if you want to put it on before you leave.”

Mr. Ritz has always been a little… too friendly. Pushing that line between being socially awkward and something you would report to HR. But today— I run my hands down the sides of my skirt. Maybe it was my fault for wearing something more formfitting than usual, but you’d think being recently married would put me in the off-limits category.