Chapter 3 - The Snowed-In Siege
By midnight, the blizzard had escalated into a full-scale whiteout, knocking out the estate's primary power grid and plunging the Gothic mansion into eerie shadows, illuminated only by flickering candlelight and the dying embers of the fireplace.
Harper was awake, sitting quietly by the window, when she heard the faint, distinct click of a silenced firearm being cocked outside their door.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Before she could scream, Dominic was out of the armchair in a blur of motion. He pulled a heavy steel-barreled pistol from his shoulder holster, his eyes completely devoid of warmth—pure predator mode.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered, his voice a lethal whisper.
The door handle turned slowly.
As the heavy oak door creaked open, two masked intruders slipped into the dark room, blades glistening in the dim light. Dominic moved with terrifying efficiency. He intercepted the first man, driving the butt of his gun into the intruder's jaw with a sickening crunch before spinning to disarm the second.
A brief, brutal struggle ensued in the shadows. Dominic neutralized both threats, but not before a jagged hunting knife grazed his shoulder, tearing through his shirt and leaving a deep, crimson gash.
The intruders unconscious on the floor, Dominic locked the door and cursed under his breath, pressing a hand to his bleeding shoulder.
Harper didn't hesitate. Remembering her rule—do not involve yourself—she threw it out the window. She rushed to the bathroom, grabbed a clean hotel towel and the emergency medical kit, and hurried back.
“Sit down,” she commanded, her hands steady despite the adrenaline crashing through her veins.
Dominic stared at her, surprised by the fierce authority in her voice. He sat on the edge of the bed as Harper carefully tore away the ruined fabric of his shirt.
“You broke the rules,” he said quietly as she pressed a sterile antiseptic pad to the wound. He winced slightly, though his eyes never left her face.
“Your rules are stupid when you’re bleeding to death,” Harper retorted, her fingers working with focused precision as she stitched the gash. “Carmine sent them, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Dominic answered, his voice gravelly. “He wanted to see if I was slipping. He wanted me dead in my sleep.”
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As Harper finished wrapping the white gauze snugly around his broad shoulders, her hands lingered for a fraction of a second against his chest. Dominic caught her wrist, his grip warm, firm, and inescapable.
“Thank you,” he whispered, the cold mafia boss entirely gone, replaced by a man looking at her with raw, uncovered vulnerability.
