Page 21

21

ALEK

M y head is spinning as Dahlia stalks out of her office. As quickly as I can gather myself, I check to make sure I’m zipped up and decent, and walk out to the hall, closing the door behind me and running my hand through my hair.

The last two and a half hours feel like a fever dream. So many of my moments with her feel like that, like they’re barely even real, the product of some starving need that makes me temporarily lose my mind. Like an addiction—like being high.

I nearly fucked her in her ass on her office desk. And it’s not just that—not just the sex. Not just the way I can’t seem to control my desire around her, like she’s unleashed something in me that I kept caged for five years.

It’s the fact that I can feel us growing closer. I can feel her starting to chip away at the walls I’ve built. The first crack was her coming to me about the man in the bar, telling me the truth—and making me believe, for the first time, that the rest of what she’s said is the truth as well.

The next was that goddamned doctor’s appointment. I never thought black and white static on a screen could crack open something in my heart, and yet?—

Don’t you want to start a family with me, Alek? I could be pregnant with your child right now. Let’s go home. Come home with me.

Elia’s voice echoes through my head, that beautiful, musical sound that’s now laced with the discordant notes of betrayal, reminding me of another woman, another promise, another possibility. She was never pregnant, I know that now. There was never even a possibility of her carrying my child. It was a trap, a honeypot set for me, a long game that I willingly played without knowing it. And now, a different woman is having my child.

So she says. The thought is automatic, but it doesn’t hold any weight now. I believe her—I have since that night that she came to me with the truth about that man. And then last night?—

Last night, I saw another man put his hands on her. Last night, I came inside of her for the first time. I felt closer to her than I have to anyone in a long time, and what did I do with that? Did I put up my walls again, push her away like I should?

No. I came to her fucking work, asked her about all the things she’s passionate about, and then fucked her on her desk. Like a lover. Like a husband. Like all the things I’m trying not to be.

No matter what you do, you’ll never be able to forget me.

Why the fuck did I say that to her?

I run my hand through my hair again as I stalk to the elevator, tugging at a handful of it in frustration. I know why I said it. I know what I was thinking of when I did—I said those same words to Elia, on the other side of the bars of a cell. I screamed them at her, raw with betrayal, pain, and blood in every word.

I meant them differently, when I said them to Dahlia just now. But I shouldn’t have.

Even if I thought I could trust her fully—even if I thought I could let go of the past enough to love her, she deserves someone whole. I’m shattered from the inside out, broken in every way, and the thought of letting her see me bare—physically and emotionally, makes both my skin and my soul crawl.

I can’t be a husband to her, and I don’t know how to love a wife like her any longer. That was carved out of me long ago. Now, all that’s left is lust, and this painful, driving hunger that makes me want to claim her, possess her, make her mine…even though I know I can’t keep her.

As I walk back out of the museum, down the street to the garage where I parked my motorcycle, I feel a prickling at the back of my neck. It’s a familiar feeling, one that I’ve grown used to a long time ago—a feeling like someone is watching me. I twist around, glancing over my shoulder, but there’s no one I can see.

I veer down a side road towards the garage, and that prickling feeling runs down my spine again. I glance over my shoulder again as I turn, once again seeing nothing, and duck into the garage as I head towards the space where my motorcycle is parked.

A dozen yards away, I see a bulky figure all in black walking quickly away from the spot where it is, hands shoved in his pockets, his head down. I grit my teeth, hanging back, and I watch to see if I can get a glimpse of his face as he walks away. He doesn’t turn, though, and I let out a sharp breath of frustration.

The thought of Dahlia out to lunch, on her own, makes my stomach tighten. I pull my phone out of my pocket, firing off a quick text.

Alek: You should go home after lunch. Call the driver. I’m worried about you going back to work.

Dahlia: Are you crazy? You come fuck me at work and then you think you can tell me to just go home? Fuck off.

Alek: I’m your husband. Just listen to me? I’m trying to make sure you’re safe.

There’s no response to that, which doesn’t surprise me at all. I press the back of my fist to my forehead, resisting the urge to try to track her phone to her location and throw her onto the back of my motorcycle. She’s not going to listen to me, though, and I’d have to lock her in her room to keep her from going to work. Which, right now, doesn’t sound like the worst idea.

Or, I could ask Dimitri to give her a bodyguard. I know he would, happily, but everything in me resists the idea the moment I think of it. Asking for that would mean that I’d have to admit to him what’s going on—the man at the bar, the fight at Sal’s, this man nosing around my bike. I’d have to open up to him about the past, explain to him that I think it might still be following me—and all of that makes me feel almost physically sick.

I don’t want to revisit any of it. And I don’t want to see his horror, or his pity, to hear his guilt over my pain. I don’t want to involve him, to listen to him strategize about how to deal with my problems.

I escaped it the first time on my own. No one came for me, no one saved me. And I’ll deal with it this time on my own, too. If only Dahlia would fucking listen.

The thought repeats in my head as I stride towards my bike, even as I know that I haven’t given her enough information to make her think it’s worth listening to . And yet, she saw what happened in the parking lot behind Sal’s. She was almost kidnapped. Shouldn’t that be enough?

My thoughts are chaos as I look over the bike, trying to make sure it wasn’t tampered with. No brake lines cut, nothing done to my fuel tank, no explosive slipped somewhere onto the machinery. It looks clean, and I look it over twice and then a third time before feeling satisfied that it’s safe. All the same, I feel my muscles tense as I start the engine, half expecting something to happen for several seconds, before nothing does and I relax slightly.

Dahlia doesn’t leave my mind for even a second as I ride home. Nor does she leave my thoughts as I pace upstairs, trying to think of what to do, until I hear the front door downstairs open and close, and then quick footsteps down the hall, her bedroom door opening a moment later.

I run my hands through my hair, striding out of my room and down the hall to hers, not bothering to knock. I barge in, and she lets out a squeal, jumping an inch into the air from where she’s standing in front of her dresser, in nothing but her bare feet, pants, and bra.

My cock instantly twitches at the sight of her soft, creamy breasts mounding over the lace of her bra, and Dahlia sees my eyes drop to them. She narrows hers, glaring at me.

“Get out,” she snaps, and I close the door behind me, leaning against it in a clear refusal.

“You are so fucking insufferable!” She throws her shirt into the open drawer, turning sharply towards me. Her breasts shift under the lace, and my mouth goes dry, my cock swelling against my thigh. “You come to my work, fuck me on my desk without listening to a single thing I have to say about it?—”

“Oh I heard everything from you about that,” I tell her, my lips twitching. “I heard you trying not to moan while I made you come three times, Dahlia. I’m willing to bet I’ve made you come more times in the brief span that we’ve known each other than you’ve come with every other man combined. Am I wrong?”

Her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t answer, and satisfaction sweeps through me. That’s an answer in and of itself.

“I want you to take another leave of absence,” I tell her flatly. “I don’t like you away from the house, at work without protection. Or ask Dimitri for a bodyguard?—”

“You told me not to say anything about what happened,” she says acidly, and I wince. “What excuse would I have for that?”

I shrug, trying to seem more casual than I feel. “Evelyn has one. Say it makes you feel safer. Say you’re worried about being married into the Yashkov family?—”

“That’s a lie. I’m not going to lie to my brother-in-law.”

“You’re not worried?”

“Not because I married into this family,” Dahlia fires back. “If I’m worried about anything, it’s because you’re keeping things from me, Alek. I’m having these strange, dangerous things happen, these scary fucking things—” She gestures to the bruises on her arm. They’re darker today, and I feel my hands clench into fists. “And you won’t explain any of them!”

“I don’t need to,” I growl through clenched teeth, feeling frustration well up in my chest. “I’m your husband, and?—”

“Don’t fucking pull that card again!” Dahlia snaps, pointing a finger at me as her eyes spark with anger. “You don’t want to be my husband. You never have?—”

“And you don’t want to be my wife!”

“That’s not the point.” She narrows her eyes. “I’m not the one pulling the ‘but I’m your wife’ card, Alek. I didn’t demand you go to the appointment with me. I haven’t asked you for anything . In fact, I’ve been trying to put as much space between us as possible while we figure out how the hell we’re going to navigate this?—”

“When you say it like that, it almost sounds like you’re just married to me as a failsafe, until you have a better plan.”

Her face falls, ever so briefly, and a sharp pain jabs, hard, in my chest. I cross my arms, refusing to acknowledge the hurt. I refuse to let myself entertain the thought, even for a moment, that I might want Dahlia to want to be married to me. That I might want to be married to her. It’s pointless, and it will end, one way or another.

But if she’s truly the mother of my child—and I believe her, now—then I want both her and our child safe. Even if it’s without me. I focus on that, and not on the feeling of betrayal that slices through my chest as I realize I’m just her backup plan. After all, she’s right that she’s never pretended that she wanted this. And it’s nothing compared to the betrayal I’ve suffered in the past. Hearing that shouldn’t hurt.

Dahlia’s jaw tightens. “Stop changing the subject,” she bites out. “You’re trying to tell me what to do, because you’re ‘my husband’. Well, you need to pick one, Alek. Either you open up to me, and explain to me why I should listen to you, and what the hell is going on—or you keep your distance and your secrets. You can’t have both.”

Her voice is sharp, cutting. I can tell that she means it. And for one wild moment, I feel the urge to tell her everything.

What would that feel like? To unburden myself to someone, to let them hear about and see everything that was done to me over the last five years? Would it change anything? And how would Dahlia look at me, once she knew?

My chest tightens, and for a moment my vision swims, the panic that rushes through me at the thought making it feel like I can’t breathe—for a moment, making me feel like I might actually be dying. I know what it feels like to be on the cusp of death, and rationally I know this isn’t it—but it feels that way.

I can’t trust her with this. Not yet, and likely not ever. Because if I let her see all of the raw wounds just under the surface and she pushed me away after?

It would be worse than revealing all of it to my brother. Worse than keeping it to myself. I don’t have it in me to let another woman reduce me to nothing.

I promised myself it would never happen again.

“Fine,” I bite out, the words coming out harsh and rasping. “We’re on the same page, aren’t we? Neither of us really want this. Which means I’ll keep what I want to myself, and once you figure out what you want, you’ll hit the road. Baby or no baby.”

That pain slices through my chest again, and I see Dahlia falter for a split second, her gorgeous eyes meeting mine. But she drops her gaze just as quickly, turning back to her dresser—effectively dismissing me.

I don’t fucking care. I tell myself that as I yank the door open with a growl, storming back into the hall and letting it slam behind me. I don’t care that she doesn’t want to listen to me—that she doesn’t even want me , unless I’m making her come. I don’t give a shit about any of it.

I can hear people moving around the house—it’s twilight outside, and Dimitri will be finishing up work soon, meeting Evelyn in the informal living room to have a drink before dinner is served. The last thing I can stomach right now is the idea of sitting down to a family dinner across from Dahlia after the fight we just had, so I head for the back door instead, stalking outside into the gathering darkness with no real idea where I’m headed. Just…away.

It’s not a surprise when I end up at the stables. I’m sure I came out here because I know subconsciously it’s one of the places I’ll be able to be entirely alone—from human company, anyway. The stablehands will have already fed the few horses stabled here and done their chores for the evening, and sure enough, when I walk into the dark barn, it’s silent except for the whickering of horses and the occasional stamping of hooves.

Finally, some fucking peace. Except it doesn’t feel quite as good as I thought it would. The silence only makes my own thoughts feel louder, and Dahlia is at the forefront of all of those thoughts.

It’s not just the sex, either, although the thought of her even for a moment is enough to make lust start to surge through my veins. It’s her —the intoxicating mixture of fire and spite towards me mingled with the woman that I see with everyone else…a woman who I see is fiercely loyal, sweet, and funny. I catch glimpses of her with Evelyn around the house, at dinner with her and Dimitri, and I see who Dahlia is when she’s not clashing with me. And I saw that side of her at the museum, too. A passionate, intelligent, driven woman who any man would be lucky to be with.

She’s using you. The thought feels insidious, an easy replacement for my previous belief that she was lying to me. An easy way to hate her, which is so much easier than the complicated feelings that I’m struggling with?—

“Don’t move, ubegat.”

I hear the rustle of hay a moment too late, as I feel something sharp pressing into the base of my neck. I hear the roughly accented voice, and though I don’t know who it is exactly, I feel certain I know where they’ve come from.

And what they want. The only question is how they slipped onto Dimitri’s estate—and yet, even with his considerable security, it’s hard to keep every possible inch covered on a property as large as his. He focuses most of his efforts on the house and the grounds closest to it, especially since neither Evelyn nor Dahlia would come this far out on the property after dark.

It was careless of me to do exactly that. But I was too caught up in my anger, in my churning thoughts—and that’s allowed this bastard to sneak up on me, too.

Sharp. A knife. If I move quickly ?—

I feel the point press harder. “You come with me, Alek Yashkov,” the voice growls. “Georgiy wants to talk.”

The name cuts through me like ice, and I stiffen. The instant I do, I feel the knife twist against the nape of my neck, and a hot trickle of blood starts to drip down my skin.

“Careful,” the man behind me warns. “You don’t want the knife to slip. He only needs you alive. Not unbloodied?—”

I move fast. In an instant I jerk around, grabbing in the darkness for the man’s arm. Years of training and reflexes click into place, my mind pinpointing where his arm would be even as I feel the knife dig and slice against the back of my neck as I twist around, sending searing pain through me. My hand clamps down, wrenching the man’s arm backwards, and I shove hard as he cries out, sending him down to the floor of the empty stall as I vault the door and rush him.

He swipes out with the knife, trying to push himself to his feet. I need him to stay down. If he gets up, winning this fight will be harder. I’m unarmed—but if he’s down, I can keep him pinned.

I kick him hard in the ribs, sending him back down again, gritting my teeth against the hot pain that lances through my calf as he swipes with the knife, catching the meat of it through my jeans. I look wildly around for anything I can use as a weapon as I kick out at him again, the side of my heavy boot catching him in the jaw, and I see a pitchfork sticking out of a bale of hay.

Twisting around, I grab it just as the man starts to shove himself up again, cursing in Russian as he lurches upwards. I yank the pitchfork free, aiming for his left thigh as I slam it down, and the tines drive through his leg, pinning him to the floor as he lets out a scream that’s only covered by the sudden whinnying and stamping of the horses as the noise startles them.

I shove the pitchfork in harder, ensuring he won’t get loose as I drop down, straddling his chest as I look down at him. “You’re stuck, zasranets ,” I growl, grabbing a fistful of his hair as I yank his head back so that he’s looking up at me. He tries to grab for me, hands searching for purchase to yank me off of him, but he can’t move much without searing pain from the tines stabbed through his leg. He groans, and I rear back, punching him hard in the jaw. His head lolls back into my grip, and I stare down at him.

Even in the darkness, with only the moon lighting up the barn, I can see that he’s gone waxy and pale. “What are you doing here?” I growl, searching his face to see if he’s someone I remember. The faces of a great many of Gregoriy’s men are burned into my mind forever—but I don’t remember this one. Someone expendable to him, probably. Someone he thought might succeed—but would send a message all the same, if he failed.

When the man doesn’t answer, I chuckle. He fumbles for the knife that he dropped when I stabbed him through the leg, and I reach over, grabbing it before he can. With one quick motion, I hold it to his throat, a surge of pleasure racing through me at the thought of finally, finally having one of Gregoriy’s men at my mercy.

“No one will hear you out here,” I tell him, satisfaction lacing every word. “So you might as well get ready to tell me what I want to hear.”