Page 54 of Hate Me Like You Mean It

Then went out.

The base of my palm pressed to my chest, massaging to calm the jolt of adrenaline pumping through my heart.Holy shit, that was loud.

“Alice?”

I blinked in the direction of the door, trying to make out a line or an edge in the darkness. “Yeah?”

“You o—” He cut himself off. “The power went out.”

“I’m aware,” I said dryly, tracing my fingers along the counter as I carefully made my way toward his voice. “Please tell me you have a backup generator or something.”

My phone was still dead, and my clothes were currently gathered in a soaked bundle in Dom’s bathtub, waiting to be put in the dryer.

“I do,” he said as I stuck out my hands, feeling around for solid wood.

“Great. When’s that supposed to kick in?” I found the handle and twisted it open with the tips of my least cut-up fingers just as he answered, “According to the guy who set it up, about twenty seconds ago.”

Perfect.

At least he had his phone. I squinted against the bright white light before it was lowered, slipping past him. “Candles? An extra flashlight?”

“They’re either still in storage or boxed up in the basement.” He aimed the stream of white light at his desk, reaching for something. The fireplace flared on a second later, casting a soft, warm light into the room.

“That’s the best I can do,” he said, tossing his phone on the couch before taking a seat. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

I tugged up the massive soccer shorts he’d lent me, refastening the hair clip I’d clamped around the gathered extra fabric in the back. Then I sat down, facing him with one arm pressed to the cushioned backrest. He’d changed into a dark tee and black cashmere sweats, his damp hair curling over his forehead.

I peeled my gaze away as he shuffled the deck of cards, willing the fluttering behind my breastbone to calm down. Otherwise, it was going to be impossible for me to actually think.

“Remind me of the sin designations again,” I said, “Diamonds are greed, and they deal in numbers. Clubs are gluttony?—”

“Wrath,” he corrected. “Clubs are wrath, and they deal in turns. Spades are gluttony and deal in measurements.”

“Right.”

He cut the deck into four sections, placing them on the large leather cushion between us. “And hearts trade in time.”

The butterflies took flight again, and I refrained from meeting Dom’s gaze as I regathered the piles in the order of my choosing.

“Court cards don’t have an assigned numerical value. They deal in consequences, and the repercussions of their actions carry through the whole game,” he went on. “As for the assigned delegates, jacks are at the bottom of the pecking order, thus plagued with envy, queens have too much pride, and kings are spoiled, indulgent sloths. Aces clear your conscience, and jokers are the devil in disguise. Playing one triggers karmic payment from your opponent for the sins they’ve committed against you. Black joker oversees gluttony and wrath; red joker is greed and lust. Did I miss anything?”

“No, but gluttony is gonna be a pain in the ass unless we do this in the kitchen.” But then we’d have no light.

“I thought about that,” he said, and I couldn’t tell if it was in my head or if he was also doing his best to avoid eye contact. “One option would be to take it out entirely. Another would be to turn this into a drinking game.”

No.

Absolutely not.

Whatever you do, do NOT bring alcohol into this mess.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s not,” he agreed, meeting my gaze. We stared at each other, waiting to see if the other person would veto it. I openedmy mouth to do it but hesitated when I saw the crystal bottle of amber liquid he’d brought out for the occasion.

It was sitting on the desk behind him, along with a number of other items, half of which I couldn’t make out from this distance, given the limited lighting.

“You took too long in the bathroom,” he noted when I raised my brows. “I got bored and prepped.”