Page 12 of The Fate of Black Hearts

“It’s Dom, and theyarereal. They’re not the kind of deities you want to tangle with.”

“How old are you to suggest you’ve met both the Fates and Death?”

“Old enough. I haven’t met Death yet.”

“I’m old too. Over a hundred.”

His patronizing chuckle implied he was eons older.

“What do you think I should do?”

For the first time, he rotated to face her. His gaze pierced her soul.

She wanted him to see what rested in her defiant, black heart.

He took her small hand in his. Warmth around ice.

The callouses on his palm were from years of weapons handling or hard labor. Why did that make her want him more? She fantasized about his hands on her and of him between her legs.

He sucked in a breath and muttered, “Bloody hell.”

Did you just see that?she thought.

His pupils dilated and his irises turned a bright blue color. He let go of her. His voice went raspy, “Willem isn’t meant for your heart.”

“Who is intended for my heart?”

A startling expanse of white teeth spread into agrin. “The lycan plotting death has a heart that isn’t as black as she’d like to think. You have yet to feel the souring of love when you realize it’s a fantasy.” He flexed his hand, which brought the ring on his left middle finger into relief. He stared at the dark gemstone.

“What of your heart, Dom?”

“It’s as black as this stone.” He stood. “It’s my fate.”

“You have compassion and…” She slowly grinned. “Desire runs hot in your blood, which means your heart isn’t truly black.” The second the words were out she wanted them back.

He glared. “You’re mistaken.”

You’re welcome for saving you.

“I don’t do life debts.” His eyes roamed her face. Somehow, his pupils dilated more than before. He sucked in a breath, then snapped, “My heart is dead. If you’re lucky, we’ll never see each other again.” In a flash, he disappeared.

Rain crashed onto her from above.

She chucked the dagger at the ground. The blade broke clean from the hilt.

She should have known it was an omen.

Chapter Four

1884,an hour later…

Dom glared at the small square parchment note hovering in the air in front of him. He despised being summoned. If he touched the floating note, it would drag him to an unknown place where he would face interrogation as if he were an assumed-guilty deviant on trial.

The mage designated as his liaison to The Mage Conclave liked to pull him to somewhere hot and far too sunny. The leadership council of seven would never ask Dom to join even though he was as old as most of them. The prophecy made Dom too risky to allow him a position of power over other mages.

He didn’t need to be reminded of the prophecy like an errant child. He was bloody well aware he wasn’t allowed to have a woman as an acquaintance or friend. If the Conclave had its wish, he’d never get within a mile of an interesting female of any species for the rest of his existence.

The only way that was possible was if they locked him up again.