Amara (Tales of a Goddess Book 1)

Ch. 24

Amara's POV:

When I push open the door to my room, expecting the solitude I desperately crave after the night's events, my breath catches in my throat. Maddox is sprawled across my bedsheets like he owns the place—which, in fairness, he does—but it's his posture that makes my pulse quicken. His dark robe is parted, carelessly draped around his powerful shoulders and split wide open down the middle, showcasing a gleaming, muscular abdomen that practically glows under the dim lighting. His silver hair falls messily over his forehead, a stark contrast to his piercing eyes, which lock onto me with an unreadable expression.

There's a kitten curled on his lap, black as night with bright, curious eyes. Maddox's fingers stroke lazily down its back, and the small creature purrs, nestled comfortably in his hold. When he sees me, a slow, almost predatory smile stretches across his lips. He crooks a finger at me, beckoning me closer like I'm some pet meant to follow his commands.

I roll my eyes, ignoring him, and move around the bed toward the mirror. My reflection shows disheveled hair and flushed cheeks—a look that betrays just how much the evening's games have affected me. I need time to sort through the chaotic swirl of emotions and thoughts flooding my mind: anger at Maddox's arrogance, confusion over Jasper's unpredictability, and the way I felt standing before that beast—before Jasper. It's a tangle I can't easily undo.

But I don't get a moment of peace. I can feel Maddox's gaze burning into my back as I start to undo the mess of my hair, fingers working through knots and tangles. His silence is heavy, a tension building in the room that makes my skin prickle. Through the mirror, I see his silver eyes following every movement, tracing my hands as they pull through the strands. The intensity in his stare is palpable, almost suffocating, and it makes my stomach tighten with a mix of discomfort and something else—a dangerous thrill that I don't want to acknowledge.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence, low and edged with something that sends a shiver through me. "Where did you get that dress?"

I glance up, meeting his eyes in the mirror. His tone isn't casual—it's sharp, demanding, with an underlying menace that wasn't there before. I raise an eyebrow, shrugging like his sudden intensity doesn't rattle me. "The maid picked it out for me," I reply. "It was in your closet."

A muscle in his jaw ticks. "Which maid?"

There's a strange note in his voice, and I don't miss it. I pause, studying him carefully. "Laira," I answer slowly. "She was the one who helped me dress tonight. Why?"

His expression darkens, and the kitten in his lap seems to sense his mood, squirming uncomfortably. Maddox's fingers tighten slightly on the kitten's back, and for a moment, I think he might crush the poor thing. His eyes narrow, a shadow passing over his face that I've never seen before—a mixture of anger and something far deeper, almost like... pain.

"That dress..." he mutters, his voice now a dangerous growl, "belonged to my mother."

I blink, surprise catching me off guard. I didn't expect that. "Your mother?" I echo. "Why would Laira—"

"It was the dress she wore the night she died," Maddox cuts me off, his tone cold and venomous.

His eyes flick over me, filled with a mixture of fury and something like regret. "You're wearing it now, like some kind of sick joke."

I stare at him through the mirror, my heart thumping louder in my chest. So that's why he hates it. The dress is more than just a piece of fabric—it's a symbol of a memory that's been burned into his mind, a reminder of pain and loss. And I'd been walking around in it, completely unaware.

"I didn't know," I say quietly, but the words feel empty, useless.

Maddox's jaw clenches tighter, his breath a harsh exhale through his nose. "Laira knew," he mutters darkly. "She made you wear it on purpose. Expecting this exact reaction. Scheming wench."