“Maybe. What will you give me in return?” He smirks. Seeing my confusion, he continues, “You know—a bargain? Nothing comes for free here.”
He rummages back in the chest and brings out black baggy-looking trousers and a white shirt, walking over towards me.
“I don’t have anything to bargain with.”
“Oh, but you do. So much delight,” he says, almost purring, reaching out to trace a finger down my cheek and leaning in, his hot breath on my ear. "A kiss for some clothes."
The tickle of his words against my skin, or maybe the weight of what he's asking for. What he's offering. My body betrays me—a shudder of pleasure, slight but unmistakable.
How long has it been since I've felt clothes against my skin?
He stands back. Waiting.
A kiss?
My eyes dip to the clothes in his hand.
This is how it starts, isn't it?
The thought cuts through sharp and clear. One concession. Then another. Then another, until I can't remember what I wouldn't do.
Just a kiss.
Just survival.
He tilts his head, patient. Like he has all the time in the world. Like he already knows my answer.
Whatever it takes to survive, right?
“Deal,” I concede.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alaya
His reaches out and a thumb traces along my jawline, deliberate and unhurried.
"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, rougher. "Deals with me are always worth it."
He steps closer, his free hand finding my waist and pulling me flush against him—possessive, certain.
"You're going to find out just how worth it," he continues, his lips curving into something between a smile and a promise. His breath is warm against me as he leans in to nuzzle my neck.
He moves slowly, his tongue tracing over my skin towards my mouth as those warm pink lips finally brush mine, the tip of his tongue tracing my lower lip.
Cupping my face, he increases the pressure, his tongue parting my lips insistently, searching so deep for my own that I feel his desire fill me. It's all heat and demand, lasting only a heartbeat but enough to steal my breath.Satisfied, he pulls away, nipping my bottom lip, a sharp pain shooting through me.
I stand there, chest heaving, as he throws the trousers and shirt back over his shoulder towards me. I just barely catch them as he strides towards the door.
“Dress. I’ll be back in a while, and I can show Heartwood my new prize,” he throws back as he exits.
Once my breathing settles, I pull on the black trousers that Domanikk has left me. They’re far too large, but between these and nothing, the choice is obvious. I tie the waist as tight as I can with a cord threaded through it and roll up the bottoms, so they don’t drag on the floor. The shirt fits the same way—I simply roll up the sleeves and leave a few buttons undone at the bottom so I can tie it tight at the front.
I can’t remember ever feeling such joy at wearing clothes.
While I wait for Domanikk to return, I walk around the tent. It’s surprisingly sparse, with barely any personal items or the usual clutter of a lived-in space. One thing catches my eye: a small wooden horse figure sits on the rough-hewn wooden mantle above the fireplace. I gently pick it up and notice it’s crudely carved, made with a child’s hand and worn smooth in places from years of handling. I wonder about its story—a childhood keepsake or a gift from his own child?
As I place it carefully back in the thin layer of dust, my eyes catch the glint of my golden wedding band on my index finger. I turn my palm over, tracing the thin golden thread that runs from my heart line, swirling up over my wrist to the intricate band just above.
