Dominic's Chronicles
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I watched her, carefully, quietly. She moved with a grace that seemed almost effortless, yet there was a subtle tension in her shoulders, a hint of nervous energy that made her presence both intriguing and… irritating.
Damien's comment broke the brief silence, his teasing tone slicing through the air.
"This is your wife-to-be, big bro. Stop looking like you're staring at one of your interns at the office."
I didn't flinch. Didn't laugh. Didn't even raise an eyebrow. Yet, beneath my calm exterior, a faint, involuntary tightening in my chest betrayed me. She noticed. I could tell. Not that I would admit it.
Damien leaned back, clearly enjoying my restraint, while I continued to observe. She smiled faintly, a subtle, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her lips. I didn't look away.
She wasn't to know how closely I was analyzing the way she moved, the way her eyes flicked toward the menu, then away, and how her fingers brushed against the table absentmindedly.
I sipped my drink, deliberately calm, letting the quiet hum of the restaurant surround us. The teasing from Damien lingered in the background, but I remained focused.
This was not amusement; this was observation. She was… different.
I finally leaned back slightly, enough to signal I was "joining" the conversation without actually conceding an ounce of warmth.
"Sit properly," I said, voice flat, commanding without raising it. My eyes flicked to her. She straightened immediately, as if my mere glance had carried authority.
I caught the slight lift of her chin, the way her fingers tightened briefly around her glass. She was careful—measured—but not afraid. That was… unusual.
Damien snorted beside me. "Careful, big bro, or she'll start thinking you're scary."
I ignored him, my gaze locking on her again. "The seat you chose is fine. No need to fidget."
She nodded. Small. Polite. Nonverbal, yes, but the message was clear. I noted it.
"Are you comfortable here?" I asked. Cold. Direct. Nothing friendly. Just words, stripped of warmth, clipped at the edges like glass.
She hesitated only a heartbeat, then lifted her eyes to mine and nodded again. A subtle gesture, but enough. Enough to let me know she understood the question, and enough to keep me from rolling my eyes.
Damien chuckled under his breath. "See? Big bro, you could be a little less… ice queen. She's not going to bite."
I didn't respond. My attention stayed on her. Every small motion—how she reached for her drink, how she set it back, the quiet way she adjusted her posture—was under scrutiny.
I wasn't here to be charming. I wasn't here to play. This was an observation, a calculation.
And yet… I found my fingers tapping lightly against the table, an unconscious echo of rhythm I hadn't meant to allow.
She caught my gaze again and gave a fleeting, almost imperceptible smile. I looked away immediately, letting the moment pass, letting her think it was her imagination.
Damien leaned in and whispered loud enough for both of us to hear, "Big bro, stop pretending you don't notice her. It's kind of obvious."
I didn't reply. I just shifted my weight, cold, composed, unflinching. Observation, control, detachment. That was all.
I watched Damien fumble with the napkin, trying to mimic one of Aurora's gestures from earlier. His attempt was clumsy, exaggerated, and for some inexplicable reason, it made me chuckle—just a little, quiet, barely audible.
A soft, low laugh escaped me, almost swallowed by the ambient noise of the restaurant. My eyes flicked to Aurora, carefully noting her reaction.
She didn't flinch, didn't look startled. Her expression remained calm, serene, as if my faint amusement hadn't even reached her.
Damien glanced up, grinning, "Big bro? Did I just make you laugh?"
I smirked, a corner of my lips twitching, and shook my head. "Don't flatter yourself," I said, voice low, deliberate.
Still, the quiet laughter lingered at the back of my throat, a subtle crack in the cold armor I always wore. Only I knew it was there. Only I felt it.
My eyes shifted from Damien to Aurora, and I caught the faintest flicker of surprise on her face. Her eyebrows lifted just slightly, her lips parting as if she wanted to say something but didn't. The way she froze, just for a moment, made her look almost delicate—fragile, yet composed.
I didn't speak. I just let my gaze linger, watching her process whatever had passed between us in that brief, restrained laugh. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—curiosity, perhaps, or the faintest trace of amusement—but nothing more.
She quickly regained her poise, sitting straighter, folding her hands neatly on the table, as if to remind herself that she was in control, that she belonged here, that she could handle me.
Her reaction didn't go unnoticed by Damien, who elbowed me lightly. "Big bro," he whispered, teasing, "she actually looked like she noticed you."
I let a slow, almost imperceptible smirk curve my lips. "Noted," I murmured, my voice low, cold, but there was a sharp edge of awareness in it.
She, for her part, didn't look away. She met my gaze briefly, a silent acknowledgment, and then returned to her drink, pretending nothing had happened.
Aurora stood and excused herself with a small nod, her movements deliberate, precise. No words, of course—she never spoke—but that didn't matter. Every motion carried meaning.
I watched her rise, the chair sliding softly behind her, shoulders straight yet relaxed. Even without sound, she communicated everything: alert, composed, in control.
She walked toward the restroom, each step measured, and I noted the subtle shift in her posture as the tension in her body eased once she was on the move.
Damien kept talking, oblivious to my attention, but I didn't respond. My gaze followed her, cataloging the way her hair fell, the quiet confidence in her stride, the light catching in her eyes.
I didn't care. I reminded myself of that. Still, I couldn't help observing, filing every detail away.
As she walked away, I couldn't help but notice something I hadn't registered before. Despite her quiet demeanor, there was a grace to her steps—fluid, deliberate, almost innate.
The way her weight shifted, the way she balanced herself—it spoke of someone who had grown up being guided, trained in subtle ways to move through the world with poise.
It struck me that she must have spent years under the watchful eyes of her brother and her grandfather, learning to carry herself delicately, even if she still thought of herself as fragile.
There was a controlled elegance in every step, a softness that contrasted with an underlying resilience. I cataloged it, silently, my expression unreadable, though I couldn't deny the curiosity it stirred.
Even in her silence, even in the way she excused herself without a word, she commanded attention—not through noise or force, but by the sheer presence of her movements.
I noticed her return before she even reached the table. Something was off. Her posture, usually so composed, sagged slightly, a shadow crossing her delicate features.
There was a subtle heaviness in the way she moved, as if the lightness of her earlier grace had been momentarily stolen.
Something had happened. My gut told me immediately—whatever it was, it occurred while she was away. I didn't hesitate. I pushed back my chair, my movements precise and deliberate, and excused myself.
The corridor leading to the restrooms was quiet, almost too quiet. But as I approached, faint voices reached me—whispered, venomous, dripping with malice. Women. Talking. About her. About Aurora.
I slowed my steps, my presence unannounced until they realized.
"Is that what you think?" I asked, my voice low, controlled, and yet carrying a weight that silenced every laugh, every mocking tone in the room.
They turned, startled, but my eyes held them in place. Cold. Sharp. Dangerous.
"You will apologize. Now." I didn't raise my voice; I didn't need to. The power in the stillness of my command, the unrelenting intensity in my gaze, did the work for me.
They stammered, muttered, and shrank under the weight of my attention. I didn't wait for them to realize fully what was happening.
With a single, precise movement, I motioned them to follow me. My steps were steady, controlled, each one echoing authority. They stumbled slightly in their hesitation but obeyed; they had no choice.
By the time we reached Aurora, I stopped and let my gaze sweep over them. "Apologize. Now." My tone was cold, sharp, each word deliberate, heavy with the promise of consequence.
One of them tried to murmur excuses. I leaned just slightly forward, eyes narrowing. "No. Not one word more. You think this is funny? You think belittling her, mocking her behind closed doors, is clever? Pathetic. Both of you."
I chuckled again, darker this time, almost amused at their fear. "You're lucky I'm feeling generous tonight." My lips curled slightly, but my eyes stayed icy, unmoving.
"Now, apologize. Or do you want me to make sure everyone around here understands exactly how worthless your behavior is?"
They didn't answer. They had no choice. They mumbled forced apologies, flushed and trembling, before scurrying off, leaving only the soft clink of silverware behind.
I turned to Aurora, letting the smallest flicker of acknowledgment pass over my face. That was enough. She was safe. For now.
Damian had been leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, and now he whistled softly. "Big bro… damn. That was… intense," he said, his voice half teasing, half impressed.
I ignored him, letting the echo of my authority linger in the room.
He leaned closer to Aurora, smirking, whispering, "This is your future husband, huh? Not the type you mess with, I'll tell you that."
Aurora, standing a little apart, turned her head toward me. She didn't speak, of course, but her hands rose slightly, fingertips brushing together in that subtle gesture she always used when she wanted to express something delicate.
I knew what it meant—gratitude.
I let my gaze flicker to her briefly, acknowledging it without a word. Damian straightened instantly, the smirk fading into an uneasy, amused smile.
Aurora's safety, the silence, and the tension I left behind were enough. Damian had witnessed it all, and though his teasing wouldn't vanish, he knew better than to cross me here.