Page 67 of Craving Dahlia

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When the messin the stables is fully cleaned up, and I’ve had a minute to gather myself, I head back up to the house. It’s quiet when I let myself in through the staff entrance, intending to get upstairs without anyone seeing me and clean up my own wounds and bloodied clothes. I can hear the clink of silverware in the dining room, faintly, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I head quickly for the stairs. They’re still eating—probably dessert by now—and no one will see me.

Once in my room, I lock the door behind me, and strip off my shirt as I stride to the bathroom. I grit my teeth as the fabricpeels away from the wound, and I throw it and my jeans into a pile on the floor to get rid of later.

The wound on my back, as I twist around to look at it, isn’t the worst. The slash runs from the nape of my neck diagonally in a jagged line past my shoulder blade, but it’s fairly shallow. It’ll be another scar to match the rest, but it’s my calf I’m more worried about. That cut is deep and still leaking blood, and it needs stitches. But I’m not going to the hospital, and the thought of stitching it up myself makes me feel a little woozy. I can manage a lot, but I’m not sure about that.

I’m not sure where I’d even find a needle and medical-grade thread that could handle it, anyway. I grab the first-aid kit out from under the sink, setting it down none too gently as I hobble over the tiles to turn on the shower, leaving bloody footprints that I’ll have to clean up later on the floor. I grit my teeth as I step into the shower, wincing in pain as the water running into the drain immediately turns pink, and I try not to think about how badly this hurts.

I’ve had worse. But it never gets easier to deal with. The night I escaped I was a mess of wounds and bruises, old and new, and the first night in the shitty hotel that I ended up at was a fever dream of pain and trying to patch myself up enough to keep going after just a couple hours of sleep. That was worse—far worse. But in this particular moment, it’s hard to be objective about it.

Leaning forward, I press my forehead against the tiles as the hot water runs over my back, searing along that cut and dripping down my body. I breathe in and out, slowly, trying to regulate the pain as much as I can, until I feel like I can manage to scrub the rest of myself clean.

Once out of the shower, I pull the edges of the wound on my calf together with butterfly tape, wincing with every tug of the raw skin. I smear it with antibiotic ointment and cover it with abandage, and then do a messier job of the slash on my back. It’s hard to reach, and I can’t use the butterfly tape on it. A bandage will have trouble sticking as well, considering the spot, but I get as much antibiotic as I can on it and slap gauze and tape over it, hoping for the best.

I’m exhausted, by the time I’m done, drained from the fight and the pain and the rush of tangled emotions. But instead of dropping into bed the way I want to, I force myself down the hall to Dahlia’s room.

It’s not locked, and I don’t bother knocking. I shove it open and barge into the room, only to find her coming out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her and her hair wet, slick against her head and dripping down her neck and shoulders.

Hot lust jolts through me, overriding the pain and nearly bringing me to my knees. I want to lick the droplets of water off her neck and collarbone, want to suck at the damp skin until it’s red from my mouth instead of the water, want to?—

“What the fuck are you doing in here, Alek?”

Dahlia’s voice slices through the air, dragging me sharply back to the present. I swallow hard, forcing back the dizzying wave of arousal, and focus on why I’m here.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Have you ever heard of knocking?” she demands hotly. “Or asking ifIwant to talk toyou? This is the third time today you’ve just barged in here, demanding I drop everything?—”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to retort that she could drop that towel, and I’d remind her of what I can do with my tongue besides talking. But that’s not why I came in here.

I came in here to make sure that Dahlia hears and believes the lies I told out there in the stable, to the man who’s going to take them back to Gregoriy. Thatshebelieves I’d never come for her, that I’d never put myself in danger for her, so that if something happens to her before I can put a stop to this, there’sno faltering. She has to believe it, so that maybe they will, if the worst happens.

Or I could tell her the truth. About everything.

A part of me wants to, desperately. But I can’t. Iphysicallycan’t—it’s as if my throat closes over every time I think of it, panic flooding me and my entire body seizing up.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her tightly, the feeling shuddering through me making every word sound exactly as taut and terse as I mean for it to. “I just came to tell you that what happened this afternoon was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come to see you at your work, and I shouldn’t have done—what we did.”

“Fucked me on my desk?” Dahlia retorts tartly, and I swallow hard.

“Yes. It won’t happen again.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “That first night was only ever supposed to be that. One night. I never planned to see or speak to you again. And now, regardless of the consequences of that night, there can’t be anything between us. I won’t touch you again. I’ll keep my distance. You can have what you need for yourself and the child, but I’ll avoid you as much as possible.”

Dahlia is staring at me, and I can’t tell if it’s hurt or incredulity that I see shining in her eyes. “You barged in here to tell methat?”

“I wanted nothing more to do with you after that night, and nothing has changed. That’s what I came to tell you.”

Every word feels like it burns my tongue. Shedoesflinch at that, her eyes widening slightly, but her jaw tightens, and I can tell that even if it did hurt her, she’ll never let me know.

We’re both good at that—at hiding everything that hurts, and never letting the other see it.

“Fine,” she grits out. “That’s fine with me, Alek. I won’t burden you a second longer than I need to, I promise you that?—”

“So you’re admitting that I’m your failsafe?” The accusation bursts out, eager to replace all of the hurt clogging up my chest right now, the feeling that lying is somehow worse than admitting to the truth I’m afraid to say out loud. “Go ahead, Dahlia. Say it out loud. Tell me you married me as a backup plan, because you were going to be fucked if you didn’t have someone to fall back on.”

It was the wrong thing to say—at least if I wanted a conversation instead of an argument. I don’t think I wanted either. I just wanted to say my piece and leave, but I can see Dahlia winding herself up now, fury sparking in her eyes, and I can’t seem to drag myself away.

“I’ll take care of myself,” she spits out. “I’ll go down and get divorce papers tomorrow. If that’s how you want to be, after everything—I don’t fucking care about failsafes. I’ll figure it out.”

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