Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Weight of Blood
The storm had passed, but the house still felt like it was bracing for thunder. Adair stood at the tall windows of Dominic's estate, her reflection fractured against the glass. In the distance, the city sprawled like a graveyard of secrets—every light a reminder of someone watching, waiting, judging.
She pressed her palms to the cold pane. Moretti's daughter. The words had followed her like a ghost since childhood, but now they had become a verdict. Every enemy whispered it. Every ally doubted it. And even Dominic—especially Dominic—saw it when he looked at her.
He trusted her enough to bleed for her. But not enough to love her.
A bitter laugh slipped from her lips. "Isn't that fitting? My father taught the world how to fear the name Moretti, and now it chains me too."
Behind her, the door creaked. She stiffened before turning. Dominic filled the doorway, shoulders squared, coat thrown carelessly across his arm. His presence always hit her like fire meeting oxygen—too much, too consuming.
"You should be resting," he said, voice even, though the shadows under his eyes betrayed the weight he carried.
"And you should stop playing sentinel," she countered softly. "Your men guard the gates. The cameras watch the halls. Why stand there like a warden unless…" She trailed off, the ache sharp. "Unless you're guarding me from yourself."
His jaw worked. For a moment, she saw the man from the alley—the one who had burned with fury at the thought of her being harmed. Then the mask dropped.
"Don't twist this, Adair. You don't understand the fire you're standing in."
"No," she stepped toward him, each word honed like a blade. "What I don't understand is why everyone decides who I am before I get to choose. To them, I am Moretti's heir. To you, I am a risk you can't afford. To myself…" Her throat closed. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm anything at all."
Silence stretched between them, heavy, alive.
Dominic's hand tightened on the doorframe, knuckles white. "Your father's blood built an empire of ash. I've spent my life tearing men like him down. Every instinct in me says I should keep you at arm's length."
"Then do it." The defiance in her voice surprised even her. "But understand this—if I have Moretti's blood, then let me be the one who drowns it. Let me fight it. Because if I am nothing but his curse, Dominic, then every time you push me away, you prove him right."
Her chest heaved. The words tasted like rebellion, like truth.
Dominic's gaze flickered, dark with conflict. He took one step closer, then another, until the space between them was a whisper. The air charged, the way it always did when the world seemed to shrink down to only them.
His hand hovered near her cheek—close enough that she felt its heat, too far to touch.
"Careful," he murmured, voice breaking. "I don't know if I can save you from the war in your veins. And I don't know if I can survive it either."
Her heart twisted. She should have pulled back. Instead, she whispered, "Then stop surviving it. Start fighting it—with me."
The words hung there, fragile and dangerous.
But Dominic—Dominic only closed his eyes, as if her nearness was a knife pressed to his skin. When he finally turned away, the loss was so sharp it made her gasp.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And Adair stood alone, her reflection in the window no longer fractured but burning with a vow: If the world sees me as Moretti's blood, then I'll write the ending myself.