Page 52 of Dustwalker

She grasped fistfuls of her hair, barely feeling the sharp pain on her scalp as she paced in the darkness. “This can’t be happening. It can’t!”

How was it possible after what she’d been through? Ronin was attractive, without a doubt, but he was abot! Hadn’t she learned her lesson about them?

It was because she’d danced for him. When he’d stopped her the first time and said he didn’t want it that way, she’d taken it as a challenge. She’d wanted to get a rise out of him, to turn him on, if that was even possible. To torment him within the boundaries of their agreement, because he wasn’t allowed to touch her.

She hadn’t expected that dancing for him would exciteher.

All the while, he’d worn a blank expression, and hadn’t budged an inch. He’d been as immovable as a mountain. But she’d been aware of his heavy stare throughout.

In the end, he hadn’t even enjoyed it. Her reaction, naturally, had been anger.

So why had she dreamt of him? Why was she so aroused when she should’ve rejected the very idea of his touch?

Because he’s different.

“Damn it, no!” Lara dropped onto the edge of the bed, pressed her fists against her thighs, and groaned. “No.”

She needed to forget about this. There was no telling how long he’d be interested in her, but she would have to dance for him if she wantedfood and shelter. If she wanted his help finding Tabitha. Yet the only way to turn her thoughts away from Ronin was to dwell on the darkness of her past…and she refused to do that, even after she’d been betrayed by both her body and her dreams.

Swinging her legs onto the bed, she grabbed the wadded blanket and drew it over herself as she lay back down, tucking it under her backside so she didn’t feel the wet spot on the sheets. She didn’t need a reminder of her weakness.

Lara closed her eyes.

Think of anything. Anything but him.

She thought of herself scavenging in the ruins, feeling the swelting sun bearing down on her as she dug through the remains of what had once been. She thought about Tabitha and her games, thought of her laughter, her voice, and willed herself to dream of her sister.

Time passed, and sleep refused to come.

Creaking footsteps from overhead coaxed her eyes open again. She stared at the shadowed ceiling and listened to Ronin walking, surprised by how quiet he was despite his weight.

Why was he up there? Was he as hungry for answers as Lara? It was obvious that he’d never entered that room, as everything inside had been covered in years’ worth of undisturbed dust.

She was tempted to pull on some pants and join him, but the phantom of her dream still haunted her. She couldn’t be around him right now. Not while she was uncertain of how she’d react.

Not while the feel of his cock inside her was fresh in her memory.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Standing before the window of the dark, dusty attic, Ronin stared at the journal resting on his palm. On the floor below, ancient clothing still lay in a pile where Lara had discovered the book. The electrodes in his fingertips fired, making his fingers twitch.

Just a glitch.

He’d been in the Dust for too long on his last run, had endured more wear and tear than normal. That was the reason for the minor, fleeting malfunction in his hand. It was not because his desire to open the book and read it was warring with his concern for what he’d discover inside.

The journal couldn’t do any harm. It was merely ink on paper. All the words in the world, all the thoughts, amounted to nothing without action. And whatever actions were described on those pages had occurred many years ago.

Ronin placed his fingers on the cover, registering the worn, leathery texture. Paper and ink. The book’s weight was barely enough to register to him, as airy and meaningless as the information it held.

If only he believed that.

He opened it to the first page.

Those things killed people today. Marched into town and juststarted killing people. I watched from the window as people were dragged into the park and executed.

Ronin’s optics flicked up to glance out the window. The park was a patch of blackness contained by the gentle glow of the streetlamps along its borders, broken only by the faint light reflecting on the pond’s surface.

That darkness could’ve held anything. Could’ve masked anything.