Chapter 11 Dahlia
DAHLIA
He’s in my bed, sound asleep. My hungry eyes gorge on every inch of his carved in perfection face, down to his broad chest rippling with muscles with every deep inhale. I pinch myself just to be sure he’s real and not a figment of my imagination.
I feel his heart beating strongly under my palm—the sonata of my life.
I don’t think mine would survive if his stopped.
It’s more than love that I feel for him.
It runs deeper than that. He’s embedded into my essence, like my very life is interlinked with his.
The notion of soul mates comes to mind. Maybe that’s what we are.
We never needed words to communicate; our hearts did it for us.
When I was younger, I cursed our age difference, hated that other women came before me. I would cry, lying in my bed, feeling desolate to my core.
I don’t care about that any longer. He has always been mine. He just didn’t know it yet. I can’t fault him for that. We women are more perceptive, more attuned to our inner world and feelings. I guess, more everything.
I could watch him for an eternity and never get enough of him.
My fingers itch to unbutton his shirt and reveal his chest, discovering what he got tattooed there that he protects so fiercely, but I don’t want to betray his trust. He will reveal it to me when he’s ready.
It already feels like I’ve gained so much. Smiling, I remember him calling me a brat. I don’t care. I’ve always been one. It was just buried under layers of desolation.
Trauma has no timeline. Healing takes time.
It’s trying and failing until you succeed, and it varies from person to person.
In my case, four years of merely surviving, never really living, is enough.
Now that I’ve escaped its greedy talons sucking my soul dry, I am eager to savor all the life experiences I’ve missed.
I roll out of bed, careful not to wake him up. Maybe he feels my absence because his brows furrow, his lips thrusting into a pout.
“I’m here, baby. Always near,” I whisper.
My assurance seems to reach his subconscious because he relaxes, shifting to his side.
Moving to my dresser, I put on a denim shirt dress and some trainers, pulling my hair into a high ponytail.
I tilt my face at the reflection in the mirrored closet.
I look different somehow. My face glows, my eyes sparkle.
Maybe it’s the orgasm or maybe it’s his presence.
Only the thought of this ending once my brother returns dampens my mood.
A bit over one week left to fill the void in my heart and live off the memories we made.
Slipping out of my bedroom, I go downstairs, finding my mother in her sitting room. She places her book down on the round table between us and watches me with knowing eyes as I sit in the chair by her side.
The old her sometimes seeps through the facade of grief. I miss my vivacious mother, but I can understand grief as well. Maybe one day she’ll overcome her pain. Maybe she won’t. And that’s okay.
“Morning.”
“Someone is in a good mood,” she assesses, smiling fondly.
I shrug. Fidgeting with my fingers in my lap, I feel the blush heating my cheeks, preferring to remain silent. I am afraid that if I open my mouth, I will proclaim my love for him.
Looking out the window, the sun shines brightly, kissing the arid land where a cacti garden blossoms. You can’t stop life from emerging, regardless of the harsh conditions, just like love.
“Your brother will understand, eventually.”
I roll my eyes at her. She should know her son better than that.
The corners of my mouth pull down. “Some things are just not meant to be.”
She waves an elegant hand through the air, taking on a no-nonsense voice. “That doesn’t stop people from coveting them even more. Like your brother. Use that to your advantage.”
“But—”
She taps her chin as if in deep thought, wearing a mischievous gleam. “I want grandkids.”
I burst into laughter and shake my head at her. “I’m sure Enzo and Calla won’t waste any time.”
“I hope not,” she sighs dreamily. “This house has been too silent, too depressed. I miss children playing. And I want both my children to be happy. I would say your choice of partners is questionable, though. But I also know you’re in good hands with them.”
I giggle. Standing up, I lean in to kiss her cheek. “See you later.”
Inspiration overcomes me. A new melody plays in my head, and I lock myself in the music room, trying to bring the notes to life as I delve into its core.
My hands fly over the keys. The high notes echo with new chances, with life blossoming. It energizes me, and as I pour all my hopes and dreams into the improvised composition, I smile. I am no longer broken. And that’s okay. Because broken means you survived. That should be celebrated, not mourned.
Time always flies when I play, so no wonder it’s been three hours.
Mika is not a long sleeper, so I rush to the kitchen. Opening the fridge, I take what I need: different cheeses and salami, plus some grapes. I also add Russian crackers and the meat he likes.
Going to the wine cellar, I select a medium-dry bottle and place it in the basket, then pick a large blanket from the drawer in the storage room.
Another hour passes as I finish preparing the picnic basket.
Every minute fills my lungs with longing so that my breaths come out shallow. I am needy for him, greedy for every moment. Insatiable to my core.
He needs his sleep, I remind myself, hating that it has more to do with the fact that time is not on our side. The forbidden thrives in stolen moments, demanding urgency to capture its essence, bottling it up to live off until another opportunity presents itself.
Outside, I shield my eyes from the ball of fire reigning over the sky, sending a heatwave through me. The pool glistens like a blanket of diamonds reflecting the sun’s light, inviting me in to cool, but that can wait.
I search for Kill, and it doesn’t take me long to find him with Lorenzo, the head of security at the compound.
I wanted Kill to stay with me, but my brother said I’d ruin his dog even more. Whatever. Lorenzo throws a ball at him, always changing his routine from playing to training him to be a watchdog.
“Kill,” I whistle, and he perks his ears before running to me, leaving a trail of dust behind.
He’s getting bigger. No wonder he overpowers me as he barrels into me. I land on my back in the grass, giggling as he licks my face and I coo at him.
Lorenzo rushes to my side, checking on the broken, frail princess. I am so done with people treating me like a delicate porcelain doll.
“I’m fine,” I grit out as I pat Kill, kissing his head. “Good boy.”
He licks my hand, and I pluck a treat from my pocket. Dogs are so much better than people, simple in their needs, unequivocal about their wants.
I hug his neck. “I missed you.”
He licks my cheek next, eliciting another giggle from me.
I feel Mika long before he makes his appearance known. His presence casts a spell around my being, binding my senses so that all I perceive is him.
Crouching by my side, he glares at Kill. “If he ever hurts you...”
I roll my eyes at the silent threat, even though he can’t see me as I continue patting Kill. “He never would.”
“Hope for that. But one scratch and not even you can hold me back.”
I kiss his muzzle. “You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?”
Kill cocks his beautiful black and brown head, barking his response.
“I know. It’s the big grump who trusts no one with me but himself, right?”
I catch Mika’s smirk from the corner of my eye, not apologetic at all. “I thought you wanted to train your aim.”
I whip my head toward him. “Really?”
He looks at me as if I should already know there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for me, melting me on the spot.
I stand on legs made of jelly. Clasping my hands together, I rock on my feet, barely containing my excitement.
He asks Lorenzo to bring a golf cart, and we hop in the front. Smiling the entire way to the shooting range, I hum quietly.
I don’t have the code or the key card to the hangar, but he has them—they trust each other implicitly, and I am threatening the very foundation. That thought swiftly pricks its sharp needles into my conscience, making me feel like the worst sister.
Inhaling deeply, I ignore the voice of reason telling me I am walking on explosive ground but hope to come unscathed to the other side. A hopeless lunatic. That’s what I am.
Inside, an entire arsenal of weapons appears, neatly arranged along the walls, from rifles to Glocks and Berettas, and even knives and machetes.
I find the one rifle I’ve trained with and glance at him. “What are we betting on?”
“Are you sure?” he asks, his deep voice ending on a seductive rasp that sends my hormones all over the place.
I bat my eyelashes at him. “Afraid I’m better?”
He pins me with a serious stare that only makes me giddy. It’s not about winning or losing, but about having fun. He’s competitive, and I might have lied about how bad my aim is. When a master assassin slash sniper trains you, you can only become good.
He approaches me. “Name your stakes.”
“A kiss,” I say breathlessly.
“A kiss?” he asks, sounding incredulous as he brushes his thumb along my jaw, his eyes fixed on my lips that tingle automatically.
I gulp, trapped in a daze. “Anything else, I would just ask to get it.”
He cocks his head, chuckling. “Also true.”
“Do we have a deal?” I ask before I forget all about the bet and jump him.
He arches a brow. “I didn’t tell you my stakes.”
I wave him off. “It won’t come to that.”
He bursts into laughter, the sound so wholehearted it brightens up my insides into a colorful rainbow. That’s all I wish to do, bring some joy into his life. I think I am doing a terrific job so far.
“Entering a bet with me is dangerous,” his tone edges on something darker, primal, before softening, “But I love your confidence.”
An electric current zaps through me, seizing my damn mind. “Whatever it is, I’ll honor my end of the deal.”