Chapter 44
Adara shifted her weight, just enough to make Dominic think for a second that she might take his offer.
Part of her wanted to press her lips to his and see what he tasted like, to explore the rest of him.
To run her fingers over his powerful, scarred body.
To give in to the burning desire that pooled within her.
But she did not trust herself to stop at physicality.
Her stomach roiled, repulsed by the way her body reacted to him, loathing her own thoughts.
His hand still in hers, Adara squeezed and twisted. “I despise you,” she seethed.
Dominic let out a sound of pain, leaping back before she could break his fingers. “What the Hel!” he shouted, ire in his emerald eyes. The wind howled, a mirror of his pain, palm trees rustling.
Adara shrugged. “Your manipulations won’t work on me.”
“You didn’t have to try to break my hand!”
“If I did, your magic should heal you quickly,” she said blandly, hoping he’d take the bait and explain why his current injuries were mending slower than usual.
In answer, the earth around her shuddered, barely, energy crackling around them.
She’d set fire to this oasis if it meant snuffing out his magic that connected him with the earth, the water, the air.
Dominic surged forward, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her to him.
He held her there with her wrist pinned to her chest between them.
She reached for the dagger sheathed at her vambrace, but hesitated to pull it free.
Anger flashed in his eyes. Magic sizzled between them.
His grip was iron, his posture immovable, but Adara did not feel threatened. He would not hurt her.
“Why must you think everything I do is a lie?” he asked through clenched teeth, his voice rough.
“Is it so hard for you to believe that I might actually feel something for you?” His eyes scanned hers, something deep hidden behind those gorgeous green irises, in the shadows that danced along the sharp angles of his jawline as the trees rustled overhead.
Despite his height, Adara glared down her nose at him. “Yes.” She yanked her wrist from his grip, but refused to back away.
He didn’t reach for her again.
“Hate me,” he said, a little breathless, the rise and fall of his chest so close to hers.
Adara’s heart beat rapidly, fire flowing through her veins, itching to be released.
So much—she had felt so much these past days in Malryn.
And it was making her anxious. The fire was controlled by emotions, driven by how intense they were.
With Dominic, her feelings were all over the place, a whirlwind throwing her around.
Her heart had failed to remember who he was at his core, but her head would not soon forget.
The notorious, heartless Dominic Nite. She hated how easily he could flip the switch.
Hated how he toyed with her emotions, made her believe he was anything but a monster.
Made her want to see that there was more to him.
His gaze flickered between her eyes and her lips.
Something shone brightly in them— lust, desire, need?
It was hard to tell, but it was something akin to deep want.
Usually, she saw nothing in those eyes. Hollow.
Empty. A void that sucked the life from whatever he looked at.
Recently, she had learned to read whatever lay within.
His hand cupped her jaw, thumb grazing her cheek. Heat that had nothing to do with her magic rose to her face.
“Hate me all you want.” His expression was harsh, voice strained, low, almost a whisper, as if he could barely bring himself to speak. “But if you’re going to, I’m going to make you hate me because you want me so badly and you can’t stand it.”
A rush of cold hit her like a physical blow when he pulled away. Turning his back on her felt more personal than it should have as he waded to shore. Droplets of water rolled down his muscled back, racing between chasms and ridges of scars and wounds like a river flowing through a canyon.
She sighed, shivering in the sudden cold, empty space that stretched between them.
I’m sorry, she thought, as if she could project her thoughts onto him. She didn’t know why she felt the need to apologize.
She had to hate him. No matter what. She fingered the key dangling on a chain around her neck, the weight of it suddenly heavy and frigid against her chest. Love only got you hurt.
She would not love again—ever. It was why she was so adamant about winning this war of hearts.
She’d experienced enough love for one lifetime, enough pain for the many lifetimes she’d now live, thanks to Andreilia’s water.
No matter what happened between them, Adara would hate him.
Dominic stepped out of the pool. Keeping her distance, Adara followed.
The sweltering desert air had them dry in no time.
Dominic pulled out his spare set of clothing—black pants with his weapon’s belt at his waist and a white tunic with the sleeves rolled to his elbows—then tossed the pack her way. It landed in a heap at her feet.
Rifling through his things, Adara pulled out a pair of brown pants and tugged them on along with a beige tunic.
His clothes were loose on her, but she quickly made adjustments by slicing off the long hem of the tunic and pant legs with one of her knives.
She stuffed the loose ends of the pants into her boots and cinched his shirt around her with her belt.
Then she pulled on the burgundy vest she’d been wearing before.
Dominic sat on a large flat stone—perhaps a piece of rubble from the old western kingdoms—its bottom half buried in the sand, its top half shaded by the palms. His back was to her, his forearms braced on his knees, bent in front of him.
Adara cautiously strode over to him and sat, fumbling with her signet ring as her gaze settled on him.
She hated the silence. It would be better if he yelled at her, if he fought her, if they bickered back and forth.
Hel, even his shameless flirting was better than this.
“How’s your back?” she asked over the silence.
“Healing,” he said simply, not even bothering to look her way.
Adara frowned.
After a moment, he asked, “Your shoulder?”
Her heart jumped. She hadn’t expected him to say more. “Healing,” she echoed. Adara glanced at her wound again.
Dominic knew so much about the Ruins. He’d known exactly where to go without a map or compass.
He’d known the monster’s bite was venomous without even having seen what attacked her.
That house—the ashes of the ruins of his home.
But how had he survived there? Did he live through the Wasted War? Fight in it?
Adara lay back on the rock, staring up at the leaves breaking up the sweltering sun. The others were waiting for them at the edge of the oasis, but couldn’t they have a moment to themselves before trudging out in the scorching heat again? After facing the Ruins, they deserved some time to rest.
“That was your home . . . ” Adara started softly.
Shuffling, Dominic was lying on his stomach, face hovering above her, his feet the opposite direction of hers. He peered down at her, his face upside down at the angle she looked up at him. “Yes,” he said. Rolling onto his side, he propped himself on an elbow, resting his cheek on a fist.
“Tell me a story,” she said, turning to face him.
His eyes glittered like emeralds beneath the sunlight striking through the lattice of trees overhead, setting his tan skin aglow.
Adara traced a finger over his pronounced cheekbone, down the sharp cut of his jaw. “Tell me your story.”
His hand found hers, removed it from his face and set it on the ground between them, but did not let go. “I’m afraid it doesn’t have a very happy ending,” Dominic said, head downcast.
She wanted to lift his chin to face her, to not be denied the beauty that was him.
Adara silently cursed herself. Why did he have to be so devilishly handsome? It would be so much easier not to fall for him if he were hideous. But that didn’t change the fact that she wanted to know him. The real him. The one hiding beneath the King of Keys’s masks and deceit.
“None of them ever do,” she replied with a sad smile. “Endings are never happy.”
“No,” he said. “They aren’t.”
Perhaps that was why both of them were so adamant on surviving, despite all the cruel things this world has thrown at them. So that when they finally found true happiness, it would never come to an end.
Their fingers laced together, stirring and tracing lines along one another’s palms in long, soothing strokes.
Adara hardly noticed what they were doing.
The softness of his touch sent sparks flickering along her skin.
As if just noticing too, Dominic’s gaze shifted to their fingers twining together, in and out, like a dance.
Hers, mangled and scarred, against his, calloused and cold.
His eyes met hers. “I don’t even know where to start.”
She squeezed his hand encouragingly. “Start at the beginning.”
A deep inhale of breath, followed by a long, slow exhale, preparing himself. A shadow crossed his eyes, devouring the light that gleamed in them. “I was born near the end of the Wasted War, during the darkest ages, the most gruesome of battles.”
Two centuries ago, Adara noted.
“The entire land had been destroyed, desiccated. Nothing but a barren desert littered with rubble and carrion. I remember playing outside as a boy. I lost track of how many times I’d stumbled upon rotten remains, scavenged upon by vultures.
” Dominic’s eyes were locked on her, but there was this glazed look in them, his brows furrowed, as if he were in his own world, watching the memories resurface.
“There was a river nearby. It flowed red with blood. I never got to see what it looked like without the aftermath of war staining it. The trees . . . Well, you saw those in the Ruins.”