Chapter 19

Dahlia

I took a bite of the sausage and gulped down the orange juice, feeling like a world-class gardener who had just conquered the jungle that was my backyard. My husband joined me at the table, his eyes glued to his tablet as if it held the secrets of the universe—or at least the scores for his fantasy football league. We didn't speak. The silence between us was so awkward you could've cut it with a butter knife, but let's be honest, even that would've felt like too much effort.

We didn't even sleep in the same bed anymore, which was ironic because there was so much I wanted to know about him. He was like one of those strange characters in a murder mystery show—except instead of solving the case, I was left trying to figure out if he actually liked pineapple on pizza or not.

Out of nowhere, a memory blindsided me like a rogue frisbee at a family picnic. His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear, and let me tell you, it was the kind of touch that could turn even the most stone-hearted into a puddle. For a split second, I could almost hear his whisper, warm and soft against my skin. Then reality yanked me back, leaving me with a fuzzy warmth in my chest and a wistful smile that probably made me look like I'd just won free tacos for life.

Our eyes met. For a moment, it felt like we were both trying to decode the same cryptic crossword puzzle from that night after the wedding. Something had happened, but my brain had decided to store it in the "too mysterious to access" file. I broke eye contact first, my cheeks lighting up like a Christmas tree. He kept staring, though, his gaze so intense I felt like a contestant on a cooking show being judged for over-salting the soup.

Desperately needing an escape, I stood up. His eyes tracked me like a hawk eyeing a very confused rabbit. "Thank you for the meal; it was delicious," I signed to Billie, our housekeeper, who had probably cooked the meal and witnessed all this silent drama with the grace of a saint.

"You're welcome," she replied, her lips suggesting she deserved a medal for putting up with us.

Back in my room, I showered, slipped into a pink nightdress that screamed, I'm cozy but also slightly glamorous, and slid under the covers. Touching my lips, I giggled like a teenager with a crush. We kissed. My husband and I kissed. It felt so surreal, like one of those romantic plot twists in a book where you yell, "Finally!" Would it ever happen again? I yawned, brushing the thought aside. I had bigger questions to tackle, like why my pillow was somehow softer than my actual life.

~~~~~~~~~

Rath.

I walked into her room, stopping beside her bed. She lay peacefully asleep, her cranberry scent lingering in the air like a dessert I wasn't supposed to touch. It was maddeningly appetizing. I moved closer, drawn in by her delicate presence. She looked fragile when she was sleeping, like a porcelain doll you'd be terrified to break.

A strand of hair had rebelliously fallen across her face. I gently tucked it behind her ear, my hand grazing her soft, warm skin. The sensation sent a shiver down my spine. Her lips curled into a smile in her sleep—a small, innocent gesture that somehow melted my cold, stony heart. It wasn't fair.

And then, as if my mind were a badly edited movie, memories surged—memories of touching her, caressing her, losing myself in her. Her soft moans echoed in my head, clear as day.

"Please me. I can handle all of you inside me."

Wait. What? Who had said that? Surely not this girl, because she couldn't talk. Or could she? My brain screeched to a halt like a car missing a turn.

The realization was frustrating. Flashes of the wedding came to mind, but they felt like puzzle pieces from a box someone had scattered and kicked across the room. I blinked, willing myself to shove those thoughts back into the depths of my mind.

I returned to my room, collapsing onto the bed with a groan. My head was spinning, and it wasn't just from her scent. Just as I was about to give in to sleep, her moans resurfaced, vivid and undeniable. My eyes snapped open, a cold sweat forming on my brow.

"Billie," I called out.

She emerged from the shadows, her movements smooth and eerie as ever. "Yes, Master?"

"You said memories of last night would resurface, right?"

"Yes, Master," she confirmed, her tone as calm as a lake at dawn.

I sat up straighter. "I need you to look into the human girl. I want to know if her inability to speak and hear is due to an illness or if she was born like that. That's an order."

"Yes, Master," Billie replied with a slight bow.

I reached out, patting her head like she was a loyal hound rather than a shadowy entity. She disappeared into a swirl of dark smoke, leaving me alone with my thoughts—a dangerous place to be.

I tried to piece together everything that had happened at the wedding, starting with her. Her hair had been styled perfectly, those curtain bangs framing her face like art. The dress fit her like it had been stitched with her in mind. And then there were the heels. Christian Louboutin "So Kate" heels.

She'd never worn anything like them before. They were a revelation—sleek, elegant, and utterly sinful. My mind betrayed me, conjuring an image of her in those heels, one leg crossed over the other. My chest tightened. No, lower. Definitely lower.

It had to be the heels. Damn those shoes.

~~~~~~~~~

Raider.

The scent of her blood wasn't just a smell—it was a five-star Michelin experience for the senses. Intoxicating, rich, and absolutely unfair to the rest of the world. Suddenly, Rath's decision to keep her alive made perfect sense. Her name was Dahlia. Yes, I asked around. Don't ask me how—I have my ways. Let's just say the local gossip network works faster than Google if you know how to tap in.

I remembered her from the wedding. Specifically, the way we danced. Her eyes were dangerously beautiful, like they had a license to kill—and they weren't afraid to use it. As an award-winning artist, I've seen my fair share of stunning women, but Dahlia? Dahlia wasn't just beautiful; she was an aesthetic crisis. Otherworldly, almost illegal in how much she distracted me.

And, uh, full disclosure? I haven't cleaned my right hand since that dance. Is that weird? Probably. But honestly, who's judging? Ever since that moment, she's been living in my mind rent-free, setting up curtains and rearranging furniture in the space where my sanity used to be.

"What do you think?" Dan's voice dragged me back to reality like a splash of cold water.

I blinked, realizing I was in the studio, not in some romantic daydream. Dan, my producer and lifelong partner-in-crime, was staring at me like he'd caught me stealing snacks from the green room.

"Play it again," I said, waving at the console.

He hit the button, and the beats poured out. They were good—cool, polished, even perfect in theory. But they didn't hit. Something about them felt as flat as soda left out overnight.

"I like it…" I started.

Dan raised an eyebrow. "But?"

"Yeah, there's a 'but,'" I admitted. He sighed, already bracing himself. "If it's the beats, I've got alternatives. Or is it the lyrics? I know they're not 'Revolutionary Art,' but—"

"It's not that," I interrupted, leaning back in my chair, letting it spin just a bit for dramatic effect. "I've been thinking… we should try something different."

Dan squinted, clearly unimpressed by my cryptic tone. "Different how?"

"I don't know yet," I said honestly, though Dahlia's face popped into my mind like an obnoxious pop-up ad.

Dan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We've got two weeks to drop this album. The fans are circling like sharks. I haven't slept in three days because of this damn track, and now you want to throw it all out for an artistic epiphany?"

"Look," I said, holding up a hand. "Sometimes, genius strikes when you least expect it. We need to draw inspiration from… something unexpected."

Dan glared at me, the patience of a saint wearing thin. "This isn't about that wedding girl you keep daydreaming about, is it?"

I grinned, probably too wide. "What if it is?"

His groan was so loud it could've been a bassline. "Fine. What's the plan?"

I leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "We rewrite the track—raw, emotional, unforgettable. We make the fans feel something. We capture… Dahlia."

Dan stared at me like I'd suggested skydiving without a parachute. "If this flops, you're explaining it to the label."

I shrugged, already hearing the music in my head. "Don't worry. It won't flop."

And if it did? Well, at least I'd still have that dance. And my unwashed hand.

"You do know this is about someone's wife, right? Her husband is definitely not going to appreciate his wife being the muse for your next big hit," Dan said, raising an eyebrow like I'd lost my mind.

I chuckled, leaning back in my chair. "Rath will understand. After all, he owes me big time."

Dan shot me a look that screamed you're insane. "Well, I just hope I don't end up torn to shreds by the lycan. That guy's terrifying when he's mad."

I burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that made your stomach hurt. "Rath? Scary? Come on, Dan, don't believe the hype. The guy's like an oversized puppy—granted, a puppy with fangs and claws, but still."

Dan rolled his eyes. "Sure, just make sure that 'oversized puppy' doesn't turn me into a chew toy."

I smirked, shaking my head. "Relax, Dan. I've got this under control. Besides, Rath knows I've got good taste—it's a compliment, really."

Dan muttered something under his breath, probably about how compliments wouldn't stop a pissed-off lycan. But hey, I wasn't worried. Probably.

" And what exactly would you write about? Certainly not about her cookies recipe." He asked.

"I want to write intimate stuff about Rath's wife," I said, dead serious. "I have a massive crush on that human. I want to pour my heart out in a song—what I think of her, the things I'd do to her at night. You know, all that."

Dan's jaw practically hit the floor. I know, I know—I sounded completely unhinged.

"Rath will skin you alive for writing an erotic song about his wife!" he spluttered.

"Exactly! You finally get my vision!" I exclaimed, grinning like I'd just solved world hunger.

He stared at me, blinking in utter disbelief. "Raider, this is..."

"A brilliant idea!" I cut him off, triumphant. "The fans have never heard me sing anything like this. It'll blow their minds! I'll have the songs ready by noon."

I stood up, patting him on the shoulder like he'd just approved a Grammy-winning concept. He looked like he was reconsidering his entire career.

"I knew you'd understand my genius," I added, walking out of the studio with a spring in my step, leaving Dan behind, looking like he needed a strong drink—or maybe an exorcist.