Her eyes glisten with tears, and she whispers, “Thank you for coming.”
“I’ll always come.” What I don’t say rings as loud as her playing. For Dahlia.
From her subtle nod, Marcella knows. “Make yourself at home. Your things will be in the guest room in the east wing,” she says, leaving me alone.
East wing, Dahlia’s side of the house. Good God, I know I am a fucking sinner, but I thought the punishment would await me once I am dead and not sooner.
I push at the doors of her music room, and they crash into the walls, doing it on purpose to yank her from the trance she put herself in. She plays until her mind checks out, ignoring the fact that she’s a human. In this state, she won’t be able to play for days, which will only hurt her more without her coping mechanism.
The scene in front of me will never cease to sever the heart from my chest. She doesn’t even flinch. Not at the sound of the doors crashing into the walls, not at my presence. She’s absent, somewhere far away. Something dark hits me straight in the chest, hard enough that I might lose balance. I am terrified that one day I won’t be able to reach her, and she will be lost to me forever. That thought shoots a lethal dose of pain that is more effective than any torture.
Dahlia wears this hollow look, her green-blue eyes like the clearest lake and the forest merged to create this unique color—unfocused. Strands of her black hair stick out, unruly, just like her playing—a mesh of high and rapid falling notes as she continues assaulting the keys. It wouldn’t surprise me if some break.
I can’t listen for one more second or I’ll rip my fucking hair out. Cutting the distance in three long strides, I grip her wrists and turn her to the side.
She blinks, regaining focus, while her fingertips are white and calloused from overuse. The sweat beading on her forehead and the tremble of her hands show she’s dehydrated and exhausted.
“I need to play,” she whispers as if pleading with me to let her do it, purge the unpurgeable out of her system.
“I can’t.” Denying her goes against my nature, but there are exceptions.
She is aware of those, and her eyes narrow into two slits—cutting.
If she could shoot arrows, she wouldn’t think twice about sending dozens into my chest.
“You don’t understand,” she shouts, pummeling at my chest. “I need to be there.”
“There where?” I ask gently. Only with her. Only for her.
She stops her assault. Strangely, I bring out the worst in her, yet I am the only one who can easily calm her down.
She sags into herself as if carrying too much weight. Her sigh makes me wish I could slaughter her demons, but her biggest one is me, and she wouldn’t want that.
“Where I have it all,” she murmurs, the fight gone.
As if her words were not enough to butcher my insides, our eyes lock. I can read her wishes. For me, for us, for a future—debilitating me.
I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. The image playing behind my lids is too fucking good when it would be the worst thing I could do to her. Shackle her to me and this life that already took so much from her.
A broken smile paints her delicate face, and she lifts her palm to cup my cheek. Her touch instantly infuses warmth into my frozen being. This woman has the face of an angel and the body of a temptress—the perfect combination of sweet and sensual.
She tips her head to the side, sighing as her arm falls to her side. “Mikail Morozov, you’re a coward. The biggest one I know.”
“Dahlia.” I groan low in my throat, saying her name with authority.
She shoots up and puts some distance between us. Then she bends over, holding her belly as she laughs and laughs some more, giving into a fit of hysterical laughter, with a touch of theatrics.
I straighten, pinning her with a stare as I mumble under my breath. She’s so damn difficult. I throw my jacket on the bench and roll my sleeves to my elbows.
She jerks her chin at me. “A problem, Mika?”
“I blame my sister. She is a bad influence on you,” I grumble.
“Ha. I bet you hate that. In your head, you need to keep me as a little girl and not the girl you?—”
I stare her down as I approach her. “Don’t dare say it.”
She arches a brow, not even the slightest bit intimidated. “Fucked—body and soul. But right, how can I forget?” She slaps her forehead dramatically before pushing at my chest. I remain unmoving, causing her cheeks to turn red with frustration. “It wasn’t consensual. Fucking leave. We both know the best you can do is run away from us.”
