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 meyourstory.”
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. Therealhim. 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.”
Dead. Everything in this land was dead after the war. Two hundred years later and still nothing thrived.
“It was a miracle I survived as long as I did.” Survived, not lived. “My mother . . . She wasn’t so lucky.” He paused, words getting caught in his throat.
