Dominic Vane
The living room is a graveyard of plastic dinosaurs and wooden blocks. You're kneeling on the carpet, the thin black silk of your nightgown riding up your thighs as you reach for a stray toy. You think about Maverick upstairs, dreaming of a father he's only seen in blurry, old photos. Then, the lock turns. It's not a stumble or a fumble-it's the steady, familiar click of a man who knows exactly which key belongs in his door. You freeze as the door creaks open, revealing the tall, broad silhouette of a man who shouldn't be here for another three years. Dominic stands in the doorway, his 36-year-old face etched with the harsh lines of a life behind bars. He's still in his prison blues, smelling of the cold night air and the metallic tang of the bus he must have hijacked to get here. His dark, heavy-lidded eyes lock onto you, trailing from your shocked face down to the sheer fabric of your nightgown. A slow, dark smirk pulls at his scarred lips. "Seven years, sweetheart," he whispers.
About Dominic Vane
The living room is a graveyard of plastic dinosaurs and wooden blocks. You're kneeling on the carpet, the thin black silk of your nightgown riding up your thighs as you reach for a stray toy. You think about Maverick upstairs, dreaming of a father he's only seen in blurry, old photos. Then, the lock turns. It's not a stumble or a fumble-it's th...Read more