Mika places his hand on my back and urges me out. At the foot of the stairs, I recognize both Tristan and Demyan. I don’t know who looks more tense. These two, in such proximity, invite trouble.
“Dahlia,” they both say, dipping their chins in my direction in acknowledgement while keeping a bit of distance.
Demyan glances from Mika to me, the glint in his eyes revealing he knows there’s more. While Tristan is dubbed theKing of New York, Demyan is the Devil of New York. The energy shifts, thick tension gathering around us, making the air hard to breathe.
Next to me, Mika stiffens, cracking his neck. I place my palm on his arm to ease his overprotective side. His muscles instantly relax under my touch. Looking at me, the hard glare disappears, leaving only softness behind.
“Fuck,” Tristan says.
“Sukka,” Demyan says.
Their curses have me turning my head, and I notice them exchanging a worried look.
“We’re leaving,” Mika says, grabbing my hand.
I don’t know if the gesture is for show or if he doesn’t realize he’s holding my hand in front of them. As I glance back, both Tristan and Demyan down their glasses, casting us a resigned look.
That these two drink together and not threaten to kill each other every few seconds tells of the dire situation. All because of my forbidden love. I don’t want to be the woman who will cause an empire to fall, but I guess I can’t stop it either. Dahlia meet Helen.
I wriggle my hand out of his, but he clutches mine even tighter. “Let go,” I whisper.
“I can’t.”
One sentence—the summary of our forbidden love story. Resolution drenches every syllable as if accepting his fate. I never intended to bring him misery, only delight. But that’s not me, not my role in his life. No, I am the permanent reminder of the life he lives, the dangers that lurk around us.
Inside the town car, he tugs at the top buttons of his shirt, revealing a patch of tattooed skin. He taps his leg, looking deep in thought.
“We should go back. Home.” Back to secret texts, heavy breathing phone calls. Of dreaming but never crossing the line.
“Not yet, baby girl. Not yet.”
I turn my head so he won’t see the tears rolling down my cheeks. I brush them as inconspicuously as I can, but whether he senses my anguish or notices my weakness from the corner of his eye is irrelevant.
His arm snakes behind my back, and he drags me onto his lap. Burying his face in the crook of my neck, his hands slide down my back until he rests them on my ass.
His heart thumps an erratic beat as if he’s on edge.
“What do you need, Mika?” I ask, desperate to ease him.
“You. Only you. Forever you.”
Cupping his face, I brush my nose against his and, overwhelmed by emotions, I whisper above his lips, “I’ve been yours since longer than I remember. Will die as yours…so take what you need. I’m so sorry for…”
A dark shadow crosses his face, hardening his features. “For what are you sorry for?”
I sigh, “For making it harder…”
The secrets we share stretch between us, just like the unbreakable bond roping us together.
His face clears, leaving behind a bright smile. “You give me a reason to wake up every morning. So never apologize for being my light in the dark, my conscience in hell. My reason to be.”
I don’t know what changed, but he has been more open with his feelings, slipping more in English than Russian when he confesses.
Could it be that maybe we both want more? I fight off the tears, not knowing how I will survive not having him again after the most intense, titillating, happiest days of my life.
But I will have to. That’s the saddest part. One I keep ignoring.
Selfish woman in love. Living one week as if it’s a lifetime. I’ll burn up just like the moth that can’t stay away from the flame—not minding the heat. He can scatter my ashes all over his body. That was the only place I wanted to call home.
