Page 65 of Craving Dahlia

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’sher—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,finallyhaving 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.”

22

ALEK

Isee the flicker of fear in his eyes as he looks up at me, his own blade pressing against the taut skin of his throat. I wonder what he’s seeing in my face, and I can only imagine that it’s what I feel roiling inside of me—satisfaction at having him at my mercy, and an eagerness to repay some of what was done to me.

I’ve never hesitated at violence. I was my father’s left hand for a reason, the one who enforced his punishments and went after those who slighted him. I’ve never hesitated to inflict pain or draw blood. But I’ve never felt such a sense of pleasure in it as I do now, in the aftermath of what happened to me.

The feeling of repayment, of exorcising my own pain one bloody cut and punch at a time, is almost unmatched. The only thing that feels better is having Dahlia in my bed.

“Just let me go. I’ll tell him you weren’t here.” The man twists underneath me, his breaths shallow with pain. “I won’t come back. Just—yebat,it hurts!”

“It’s supposed to.” I press the blade harder against his throat, drawing a shallow line that starts to drip blood, the way I can still feel thick warmth congealing down my back and calf. “Gregoriy sent you here for me? Why?”

“Just let me go,” the man pleads, struggling again, and I pull the knife away from his throat, pressing the tip to the corner of his ear.

“Answer thefuckingquestion,” I snarl, and he tries to twist away from the point of the blade.

---