Chapter 3
Lily carefully approached the heavy dining table, her scuffed brown sneakers sinking into the plush carpet. She turned and slowly sat down in the velvet chair Dominic had pulled out for her, keeping Noah securely cradled in her lap. She looked impossibly small sitting next to the broad-shouldered billionaire, the oversized burgundy knit cardigan swallowing her frame.
Rosa returned seamlessly, moving with quiet efficiency. She placed a steaming bowl of rich, creamy soup in front of Lily, a fresh plate of warm artisan bread, and a small, warmed bottle of milk for the baby. Rosa offered a gentle, reassuring smile to the little girl before stepping back against the wall, her hands clasped nervously in front of her sage-green blouse.
Dominic remained silent. He slowly sat back down in his own chair, his dark-brown leather shoes resting flat on the floor. He picked up his bourbon glass but did not drink. His piercing gray-blue eyes watched the girl's every move, noting the sheer desperation in her restraint. She was starving, yet she did not lunge for the food.
"You first," Lily whispered softly to the baby.
She carefully unscrewed the cap of the milk bottle with one hand and guided it to Noah’s tiny lips. The infant latched on immediately, his soft dark-blond baby hair brushing against Lily’s pale-yellow cotton dress. He drank greedily, the nourishment bringing a faint flush of color back to his pale cheeks. Lily watched him with an expression of profound, mature relief that did not belong on the face of an eleven-year-old child.
Once Noah was settled, Lily finally allowed herself to reach toward the silver bread basket.
As she extended her thin arm across the white linen tablecloth, the heavy sleeve of her oversized burgundy cardigan caught on the edge of the table and slipped upward, sliding past her elbow.
Dominic’s breathing stopped.
Exposed against her fair, rosy skin was a dark, horrific ring of deep purple and black bruising, wrapping entirely around her fragile wrist. It was the unmistakable, violent mark of a grown man’s hand, a grip so forceful it had nearly crushed her bones.
Dominic’s jaw tightened instantly, a dangerous, rigid tension locking the muscles in his face. His gray-blue eyes darkened from calm observation to absolute, lethal fury. He slowly reached his large, tattooed hand across the table, moving with deliberate restraint so as not to startle her, stopping just inches from her bruised arm without actually touching it.
"Who did that to you?" Dominic asked.
His voice was incredibly low, perfectly controlled, yet vibrating with a suddenly dangerous, protective intensity that made the surrounding bodyguards shift uncomfortably. It was the tone of a man preparing to go to war.
Lily gasped. She instantly yanked her arm back, frantically pulling the heavy burgundy sleeve down to her fingertips. She clutched Noah tighter against her chest, her eyes wide and terrified.
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"It was an accident," Lily stammered, her voice shaking violently. "I fell."
"Do not lie to me, little one," Dominic murmured, his gaze holding hers. "I know exactly what a handprint looks like."
