Chapter 8
Adora
I wake up more rested than I’ve felt in years. My body hums with a delicious ache. Muscles heavy. Skin warm. A haze of satisfaction clings to me like silk and sin.
Then it hits me like a truck.
My eyes snap open. Fuck. Dominic. I fucked Dominic!
I stare at the ceiling, hand searching blindly across the sheets. Empty. He’s not here.
Why does that twist in my chest? Why do I feel… disappointed?
No. No. This isn’t happening. I’m fine. I’m fucking fine.
“You’re up.”
I scream. Actually scream. My whole body jolts, heart slamming into my ribs as I twist toward the voice.
He’s there, leaning against the doorframe like he owns the world and everything in it. Arms crossed. Face unreadable. Eyes razor-sharp, slicing right through me.
I pull the sheets up to my neck, suddenly aware that I’m naked. Exposed and fucking vulnerable.
His expression doesn’t shift. He doesn’t react at all to my obvious freakout. He just watches me, analyzing and scrutinizing my every twitch. Like he’s trying to decide what I’m worth.
Then he turns, walks casually into the closet and comes out with a bundle of clothes. Tosses them onto the bed.
“Get dressed. We have shit to talk about.” Flat. Cold. Not a hint of emotion.
My stomach sinks. Ice spreads inside my veins. What the hell has he been planning while I slept like a goddamn fool?
I nod. That’s all I give him, and that’s all he needs. He turns and walks out without another word.
I drag on the clothes slowly. Sweatpants. T-shirt. Takes seconds, but I stretch it out like it’s a holy ritual. Like every breath is a silent scream. I need a minute to steady my hands, to cage the panic crawling in my brain.
I’m not ready for this conversation. I’m not ready to face Ghost. I don’t want to leave Dominic behind.
It’s been years since the love we had between us died. Since it was buried deep under pain and my betrayal. There’s not even a corpse left. Just dirt. Dust. But my body still remembers him. My heart still wants to whisper his name. That’s the sickest part of all.
I know why I feel like this. It’s because of the guilt. I never fully let him go because I always felt like I owed him something. And I did. I do. I owe him for the lie I told.
But life’s not that simple. It’s not black and white. It never is.
I hang my head, breath shallow. If I hadn’t betrayed him, we would’ve been married by now. With at least ten little hellions running wild, at the rate we were going at it. I just know it. I can feel it without a shadow of a doubt.
I force those thoughts down. Bury them deep.
I need to find a blade. A knife. A damn razor.
Not to hurt him — I already did that. I hurt him in ways no blade ever could.
But if he takes me back to the dungeon… if he drags me there again, I need a way out. I need something sharp. I won’t go through that again. I can’t.
He said he wouldn’t. That the dungeon part was over. But that was Dominic talking. If Ghost is back, he won’t have any qualms about breaking promises.
My chest aches. Liz flickers in my mind. Her eyes. The sound of her laughter. She’ll be okay though. She’s far away now, on another continent. Safe. She has a new life ahead of her, a job, a home, freedom. She’ll live, even if I don’t.
I walk into the bathroom and start searching. Quiet, controlled. But desperate.
Nothing. Not even a fucking razor.
“You’re stalling.”
His icy voice shoots through me.
I jump and spin around, eyes wide. “I— I was just… looking for a toothbrush.” I point stupidly to my mouth. “Morning breath.”
Why the hell am I like this?
He narrows his eyes. Flicks a glance at the counter beside me.
I follow it, and there it is. A brand new toothbrush, sitting beside another one.
Fuck.
I force a smile, trying not to show the way my pulse is slamming. “Didn’t see it. Sorry. I’ll just… be a minute.”
“Sure.” He tilts his head, unreadable. “I’ll wait.” He nods toward the toothbrush. “Go on.”
I grit my teeth. Of course I get an audience for this.
I brush. Fuming. Plotting. Dying a little inside. And then I follow him out, straight into whatever hell he has waiting for me. Maybe I’ll find something in another room. A forgotten drawer. Somewhere he’s not watching.
Yeah, right.
Who the fuck am I kidding? He’s always watching.
I roll my eyes at his back — all hard muscle and perfect posture, like Michelangelo himself came back from the dead just to sculpt him into a masterpiece.
“Stop rolling your eyes.”
I freeze.
What. The. Fuck.
How did he—?
I stare at him like he just grew a second head. He doesn’t even glance back. Just sighs, tilts his head toward the ceiling like he’s begging the gods for patience, then lifts a lazy hand and points at the wall.
“There’s a mirror.”
Then he walks off. As if he didn’t just casually flex his supernatural abilities at me.
I’m still standing there, halfway to combustion, running through my shrinking list of options when his voice cracks through the air like a whip.
“Adora!”
I jump and scurry after him like a chastised dog.
God, I hate how rattled I am. I’m twitchy.
Jumpy. A live wire with no insulation. My head’s all over the place — this upcoming conversation, that dungeon nightmare, the fact that I let him touch me, that I wanted him to.
That it felt so fucking good I want to do it again.
I’m unraveling. Fast.
We walk into a kitchen, and I nearly stop breathing.
Granite countertops. Stainless steel appliances. Clean lines, warm lighting. In a nutshell, expensive minimalism that screams money in a whisper.
I spin around, eyes finally drinking in the place. This house is massive and luxurious.
When the hell did he get this?
I guess crime really does pay. And it pays in high-end countertops and custom cabinetry.
I feel like a fucking idiot. For the second time today. And I only just woke up! I’m a starving substitute teacher with second hand shoes and holes in my socks, and this man is swimming in cash from all his illegal activities.
He clears his throat. My brain snaps back into my skull.
He motions to a chair at the kitchen island. “Sit.”
No room for questions. No room for anything. He turns his back to me like I’m already forgotten and heads for the espresso machine.
Of course he has an espresso machine, and I have a filter.
I huff and sit, glaring at his broad back like I can melt it with my eyes.
Moments later, he sets down a cup of coffee in front of me.
Then, orange juice.
Then, a glass of water.
Oh, fuck him. Now he’s turned into Mr. Hydration, after letting me rot in that concrete coffin, begging for a drop of liquid with cracked lips and no dignity.
I say nothing, and just sip the coffee. It’s fucking incredible. Rich. Smooth. Probably roasted by monks on a mountain.
Jealousy claws at my chest with incredible fury.
A beep sounds, and then he places a plate in front of me. It’s overflowing with eggs, bacon, hashbrowns and sausages that glisten like they were cooked in angel tears.
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching me. Waiting… for what? A thank you? Manners are always important, so I’m about to say it, but he speaks first.
“I had to reheat it. You woke up late.”
It’s almost an accusation, like I committed some kind of unforgivable crime. Outrage flares hot under my skin.
“Yeah, well, people tend to sleep in after spending — help me out here — how long was it? In a fucking dungeon?”
I blink at him, wide-eyed, innocent as hell.
“Almost three weeks,” he says, the faintest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
…Shit. Longer than I thought. No wonder everything aches like I’ve been hit by a truck.
“Eat.”
His voice is still flat. Still cold. But it doesn’t matter. Not after I’ve been starved like a feral stray. I don’t need a warm voice to justify food.
I dig in.
And holy shit. It’s simple, but it tastes like heaven and decadence had a baby and served it on a plate. I almost moan, but I stop just in time. I do have to set some limits for myself.
I glance at him mid-bite, fork hovering. “You not eating?”
He smirks, a barely-there lift of his lips. “Already did.”
Cool. Works for me.
I shut up and keep eating. Food now, talk later. Talking leads to dungeons, and I’m not doing that again. I clean the plate like it owes me money, until I’m so full he’ll have to roll me out of here with a forklift.
When I finally lean back, it’s with a slow exhale. My stomach is satisfied. My nerves? Not so much.
I look at him, but don’t say a word. I'm just waiting for the axe to fall.
He takes my plate, slides it into the dishwasher like we’re just two normal people having a quiet breakfast and not two ex-lovers with a shitty history and invisible landmines between them.
Then he turns around and stares at me. Says nothing. The silence stretches long enough that I start cataloguing every possible form of psychological torture he might be cooking up next.
Finally, he opens his mouth.
“We’re getting married.”
That’s it. That’s all he says. THAT’S ALL HE SAYS!
My jaw drops. My soul momentarily leaves the building. I blink. Once. Twice. A whole fucking Morse code sequence. I even stick a finger in my ear like that’s going to fix what I definitely didn’t just hear.
“Come again?” I croak, voice half an octave off.
His face stays stone. Not even a twitch. I wait for the grin. The gotcha. The wink. The ‘just kidding.’ But it doesn’t come.
“Stop acting silly. You heard me. We’re getting married.”
He says it again. The same exact words.
I explode.
“Are you out of your ever-loving mind?!”
It bursts out of me without warning. Rage, disbelief, hysteria, insanity — pick your poison, I’m drinking it all.
Finally, finally, he smiles. A sick little smirk. Barely there, but smug as hell. He walks to me, slow and confident, grabs the back of my chair, and spins it toward him.
I’m still stuck on the fact that this man just proposed like he’s a general and I’m his loyal recruit.