| 4 | The Damsel's In Distress

[ S E R A P H I N E ]

When I step out of the bathroom in an old cotton shirt and clean leggings, the curtains are lightly swaying in the early morning breeze. They cast dappled shadows across the bed sheets.

Okay. Dominico bothered to cover up the windows. Maybe he can't sleep in a room that isn't pitch-dark.

I take a deep breath. I feel a bit lighter, relaxed, and not that dizzy anymore.

The lights have been turned off. Except one. I suppose he left the nightstand lamp on for my sake. The yacht sways ever so slightly, and I don't hear any strange noises coming from outside.

Thank goodness. Ignazio hasn't found me yet.

Dominico is still on the couch, sitting alone and...

What the heck?

The guy's half-naked? When did he take his clothes off? Where did he put them?

I stand still and open-mouthed beside the bed, my insides already in knots.

But maybe this is normal for him? Sleeping in his underwear... And to be fair, his dark boxers still hide enough of his private parts and a few inches of his muscular thighs.

My knees nearly buckle. I swallow the dry lump in my scratchy throat, clasping the straps of my bag as I quietly sit on the edge of the neat and soft, queen-size bed. "Snap out of it! What are you? Twelve?" I scold myself in my head.

Annoying. Just embarrassing, really. I shouldn't be this flustered. Warm and tingly all over...

I've already seen him without a shirt once. Back at the country club. That sunny afternoon, he aggressively played tennis with his cousin for two hours.

But now that we're barely three steps apart, it feels different. Seeing him this way. This close.

Alone. Injured.

Bare and...

Vulnerable.

It doesn’t look or sound like he’s still awake. If he sees me watching him sleep, I'll probably melt into a pool of nothingness from the embarrassment alone. But I can’t help it.

This is probably the first and last time we'll be sharing a room. On a yacht, or, anywhere else. And I still can't wrap my head around the fact that I'm in this position. That I'm all alone with him in a small room at four in the morning. As if we're old friends just hanging out. As if that awkward chat we had an hour ago wasn't our first ever conversation.

I guess manifesting actually does work. Sometimes. To some degree.

“Good bath?”

My entire body jerks at the sound of his muted, hoarse voice. “Yeah. I-I feel a little better.” I clear my throat and grab one of the pillows, acting like I didn't just stare at his shirtless body for a good minute. “Thanks.” I toss my bag on the nightstand.

“Good.” Dominico stifles a yawn with his fist.

I stare at the ceiling, quieting my thoughts as I feel the headache ebbing away. “Hey.”

“Hmm?”

“Am I gonna lose my job?”

A lengthy sigh comes before his reply. “I don't know. He's not taking my calls.”

Is he talking about his father? Is he not talking to his son because of what Dominico just did? “Because of me?” I bite on my thumb and wince, fearing the worst, patiently waiting to hear a more specific answer.

“Nah. He's probably too drunk to hear his phone. Or too busy with something.”

“Oh.” Busy with what? It's almost four in the morning.

“You goin' home later? Once we dock?”

I pull the thin blanket over me to hide most of my body despite my maroon leggings. The soft yellowish glow of the lamp isn't dim enough. I'm sure he doesn't care about how I look in this loose crop top, but I don't want him to see I'm no longer wearing a bra. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Have to render another eight hours today.”

The guy scoffs like I dropped an old, unfunny joke. “Don't bother. Go home.”

I massage my warm nape. The exhaustion and lack of sleep aren't helping me read between the lines. I don't have the energy for another argument, so I divert the conversation instead. “Why does your accent sound very American?”

“Because I lived there.” A fleeting grin doesn't show his nice teeth. “Canada, actually,” he adds, mumbling his words with his eyes still closed. His tan, hairy arms conceal most of his abs. Like his upper body, his legs and feet are bare.

I don't see his shoes anywhere. The pillow beside my face still faintly smells of his sporty cologne, and the dimmed lamplight only makes his hair and lashes look darker. I redirect my gaze to the ceiling before he catches me ogling him again. “I thought your family’s from Florence.”

“My mother's French-Canadian.”

Interesting. The way he talks makes a lot more sense now.

“Finished highschool in Montreal.”

“Really?” I squeeze the white pillow between my legs. “So your mom’s not here. In Italy.”

“She was.”

Was? His mother's dead? Or just away?

“Pappa drove her crazy.”

“Oh.” Crazy as in clinically insane? Or is he using the word loosely?

“She divorced him, went back to Canada before I graduated,” Dominico explains in his familiar monotone.

“I see.”

“Then he married my stepmom.”

Ah... Mrs. Tomassini, the sindaco. Well, ex-mayor. “I met her one time. She seems nice,” I mumble with my eyes closed, despite knowing it'll take me a while to get to Dreamland.

I have more than a few reasons for still feeling restless. I'm itching to ask him more questions, but I don't think he wants to keep talking about his personal life. Much less keep talking about his family's issues with a broke bartender he just met.

Dominico scoffs loudly. “Yes, she does.”

I frown. I don't stare at him again to seem only mildly intrigued, but the logical side of my brain's already trying to figure out the reason behind his sarcastic tone. “Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

Fine. I'm being nosey. “So, you also speak French?”

“And Spanish.“

“Really? Handy.”

“Sometimes,” he murmurs nonchalantly.

Impressive how he's fluent in another foreign language. Maybe he learned it because he dated a Spanish celebrity.

I cover my face with the blanket to hide the nervousness I still feel.

So he speaks four languages, grew up an only child like me, and his parents divorced when he was just a teenager. Perhaps it's why he likes to keep to himself?

“D'you need another pillow?” I shift on the bed and look at him, my scratchy voice breaking off the awkward silence.

His eyes remain closed. His nasal bridge and the tip still look fairly swollen.

My eyelids feel heavier now. But knowing he's in pain and having trouble sleeping makes me feel selfish. Guilty. Like I shouldn't be here. I sit up, still focusing on him, waiting for him to say yes. But I hear nothing. “Hey.”

No answer.

“Dominico.”

“Seraphine.”

I bite on my lip and fight off a smile when I get a glimpse of his. My heartbeat quickens at his close-lipped grin. I feel a bit giddy, even though it's not the first time I heard him say my name. “You want another pillow? Or some painkillers?”

“No. Get some sleep.”

•

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Faint knocks somewhere jerk me awake while the blanket covers me from head to toe. I squint at the curtains and dim windows, then at the door in the corner. I rub the glue out of my eyes.

Under the blanket, my other hand fumbles for my phone as three more muted knocks interrupt the silence. I redirect my attention from the door to Dominico.

He looks asleep and pretty comfortable, sitting still on the left side of the loveseat, his head on top of the backrest.

What time is it? Where's my stupid phone? And who's knocking?

Room service? This early? It's not even sunrise yet. Did he call for room service?

I'm one of the servers on duty today. I don't remember the shift manager saying we'll also deliver room service to the cabins on every deck. It's a breakfast buffet, after all.

So who's outside that door? What do they want?

Is it Ignazio?

Shit. He probably brought his security staff with him.

"Please not him. Please. Anyone but him," I whisper to myself under the covers, my legs and feet suddenly cold.

The room's still dim because of the curtains, but the sky's no longer pitch-black.

A few more knocks cut through the silence. I practically jump out of bed, fear clamping my mouth shut, the smooth wood beneath my toes a little cold. The soreness in my legs and feet reminds me of my schedule this week as some nervousness quickens my breaths.

What should I do? Just hide under this blanket? Lock myself up in this cabin all morning?

Dominico's still asleep. The painkillers I gave him must've knocked him out after I dozed off.

In the dimness, I kneel beside his half-naked body while he lightly snores on the loveseat. A folded pillow keeps his head elevated. Good enough.

My heart beats faster the more I listen to his steady breathing and the louder the knocks get. I don't wanna wake him up, but, his father could be standing right outside, already losing patience.

"Dominico?" I whisper. My head's now inches away from his face. "Hey." I tap his bare shoulder a couple of times, his skin a little sweaty. "Dom, someone's outside." I sigh when I don't hear any change in his breathing.

The guy doesn't even stir one bit. Okay. Another heavy-sleeper like my dad.

The muffled footsteps coming from outside leave goosebumps along my arms. The footsteps aren't heavy, but firm enough, and not too many.

It's a guy. Or two guys. Is the door still locked? I can't see much from this angle.

I stay on my knees beside Dominico. My feet dangle over the edge of the couch. I don't need to switch the lights on to get a good look at him.

His wavy hair doesn't look unkempt. Like his sharp jawline and muscular chest, his arms and legs have dark, tiny hairs.

Three more knocks snap me out of my close to lewd imagination. "Dominico, someone's outside." I inch closer to him. "Hey."

No answer. No movement.

Ugh. I wanna jolt him awake with a slap, but he might overreact and hurt me worse. "Dominico." I tug at his forearm, his skin warmer than mine.

Eyes still closed, he grunts as if still in pain, then scooches closer to me. His nose brushes against my cheek. "What?" Dominico straightens and scowls, his deep-set eyes barely open.

There's still a hint of whiskey in his breath. His sluggishness and the grogginess in his voice suggest a few more hours of sleep to help him recover from the physical assault he endured.

The warmth of his body next to mine feels oddly comforting. I pull back and feign a calm face despite the tightness in my belly. "You ordered room service?" I ask.

"No."

"There's someone waiting outside."

"Who?" Dominico sighs, his voice a bit hoarse.

"I dunno. Someone's been knocking and—" The knocks have stopped. But it doesn't mean the person already left. "I think it's a guy." I get back on my feet and clasp Dominico's forearm. I try peeling him off the couch.

Nothing happens.

Ridiculous... This must be how 200 pounds of gym-trained muscles feel.

Dominico merely scratches his head and smothers a yawn with his fist. Then he squints at me and my hand on his bare skin. "Friend of yours, maybe. From the waiting staff or..."

How I wish I have a friend with me right now... "I don't think so."

"Did you open the door?"

I shake my head as his fingers lightly touch my arm. I lose my footing when he pushes me back onto the couch with his hand on my shoulder. Not forcefully, though.

So I'm supposed to just sit here? Because I shouldn't be anywhere near the door?

The gesture and his closeness lull some of my dark, panic-induced intrusive thoughts, until I feel something cold and hard poking my thigh. "What's..." I turn to the side. My eyes widen at the shiny barrel of a handgun.

Silver gray. Thick and big. The thing's bigger than my entire hand. It sits on the edge of the couch, quiet and forbidding, the hard metal glistening somewhat.

Not the first time I've seen a gun up-close, but staring at it just tenses up every muscle in me. And now my palms feel cold.

What the heck? So it's been sitting here the entire time? While we slept? Why's he carrying a deadly weapon?

Not once have I pegged him as the type who sleeps with a gun beside him. Does he feel that threatened? Because of that violent fight with his dad? Or because he thinks he mistakenly let a stranger into his bed?

"It's mine," Dominico says casually. He's putting on pants and standing next to the bed. "Don't touch it."

Why would I? "Y-You think it's your dad? Outside?" I say with a straight face to disguise the tension and loud pounding in my chest.

"No." Dominico's tan and broad shoulders stiffen up the longer we stare at each other. He grabs the gun, his fingertips brushing against the side of my leggings. "You good?"

"What?"

"You're pale." He tucks the barrel of the gun into the back of his pants, the trigger hiding right underneath the waistband.

"I'm okay." I look down and sit back. There's no need to lie to him, but I don't wanna seem any more nervous or terrified.

Yes. I just met him. I don't even know if he's got a permit to carry. But he doesn't seem the type to use a deadly weapon irresponsibly.

As my butt and thighs grow warmer on the cushion, I keep my mouth shut. Considering his current condition, I don't think he should step outside by himself, but it's not like I can physically stop him or tell him what to do. "And you? Feel any better?" I ask just to disrupt the long and awkward silence.

"I think."

"Why d'you have a gun?"

"Habit." Dominico sighs and stands right in front of me. "Sure you're okay?" He gently presses the back of his palm on my neck.

Why's he checking my temperature? I pull away. "I'm fine." I rub my sweaty palms onto my leggings. "Does your dad know we're in here?"

"Maybe. Stay there." Barefoot and still shirtless, Dominico heads towards the locked door while I stare at his back muscles.

Now my throat feels drier than my sense of humor. Never in my life have I imagined seeing the man of my dreams this way. Armed. Shirtless. And so...

Overprotective.

Before he can reach for the doorknob, I flinch at the sound of four quick knocks. They're louder, but still not forceful. My stomach feels tighter, and my legs feel weaker. My bladder feels like I have a bucketful of piss just waiting to get out. I hold my breath and glance around.

Wrinkled clothes on the floor. Messy blankets and pillows...

Darn. It kinda looks like we had sex all night.

I clear my throat. "Where's your phone?"

"Dead. Get in the bathroom." Dominico sighs when I don't move.

The knocking resumes. "I-I don't think it's someone I know."

"Prolly not," he says calmly, not an ounce of doubt in his deep voice.

Oh. So he's sure it's someone he knows? Why?

I sit on my hands. My breaths feel like they don't actually reach my lungs, but I'm trying my best to look normal, keeping up a blank face despite the dark and disturbing thoughts already forming gruesome images in my head.

"Could be Enzo."

"Enzo?" I get up from the couch and stand behind Dominico, as close as I can without touching him. Not sure why the closer I am to him, the more secure and less agitated I feel.

"Lorenzio. My cousin," he mutters while his right hand rests on the smaller deadbolt. "Or one of the guards."

One of his father's bodyguards? A stranger with a gun, as well? I hold my breath as the knocks get louder.

With the sun already rising, the room suddenly looks and feels smaller. Warmer. Realer.

The noise of seagulls squawking outside the window makes my ears ring, interrupting the tense silence worsening the panic squeezing my insides tight.

I'm dizzy again. I can't do much except hide behind Dominico.

But to be fair, whoever's waiting outside at least has the decency to knock.

I want to step closer to Dominico and hold onto his muscular arms, but I don't want him to get any more uncomfortable than he already is. "Don't just leave me here." My voice wavers. I'm on my toes now, and my forehead's almost touching his upper back.

"Hey." Dominico turns to face me and leans in. "It's fine."

Fine? How is he so sure? My breaths grow shallow as I think of something a calm, sane person would say in response.

"You're okay. You're safe." He stares into my eyes before his fingers gently touch the back of my head. Like he's trying his best to comfort me without making me feel like he's touching me inappropriately.

My face and entire body go rigid. Hot.

"Just gimme a minute. Alright?" he murmurs with a slight frown.

I nod and take a step backwards. "I'll just, erm, wait for you in there." I grab my phone on the nightstand and practically sprint towards the bathroom. Well, what else can I do?

He's the one with the loaded gun.

I mean, I assume it's loaded. "Don't take long? Please."

"Yeah. Lock the door." Dominico unlocks the bigger bolt. "Don't go anywhere."

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