Dermot Ross
Dahlia’s approval of Ian’s possible murder should not have made me this happy. Then again… her approval in general made me fucking thrilled. It wasn’t surprising. I was already bordering on the edge of obsessing over her.
Right... On the edge. That’s what we were calling it?
Despite everything that had happened in the past few minutes with my father, a smile formed on my lips as I considered pinning her up against the hallway wall and showing her how fucking happy her words made me. Then I remembered that there were others who could come across us, like security, and my possessive side had me scooping my baby girl up and carrying her towards my bedroom.
The one that I’d been living in the past few years to avoid my father and all the stupid shit he involved himself in. I could have taken her to a guest suite, but I wanted to see her in my room. In the space I’d inhabited for so long, even if it wasn’t really mine anymore. I’d never brought anyone back here to the compound, and the amount of nights I’d spent alone and thinking about something needing to fucking change probably stained the space with a level of sadness that I hadn’t felt since moving to Wildberry Lane.
I knew that Dahlia noticed the tension and stress that I exhibited while here, but what she didn’t realize was that this was my normal. Who I was with her was someone far happier than the man I’d grown up to be. It was probably why I clung to her despite her being in my arms.
“Is that bad?” she whispered, her voice soft and hesitant.
“No.”
She nodded, and I tried to find the words that wouldn’t showcase just how thrilled her words made me. “I want Ian dead as well.”
There. That was normal, right? Well, more normal than telling her what I wanted to do to him and how much I wanted him to suffer for ever even thinking about attacking her. I may not have been as bloodthirsty as my cousin, but I still had a list of people that I wanted dead. I think this place brought it out in you, and that was why Dahlia’s approval of it, even to the smallest extent, was extremely dangerous.
It also had me knowing that she was far more suited for this lifestyle than she realized. Dahlia may have lived in a bubble of safety for most of her life, but because of that, her perception of the world was skewed. Actions that were odd and wrong in the eyes of society wouldn’t always feel that way to her because she trusted those that she surrounded herself with.
Her family. The other men. The people she loved.
A woman with Dahlia’s family and wealth could afford to do that, and I was glad for it because I didn’t think most women would have taken what had happened the past few days in stride like she had.
Which was good, because that meant there was less chance of her wanting to leave, something that I wasn’t positive would ever be allowed to happen, as it was. I don’t think she realized how deeply she was embedded in all of this. As much as all of this was a risk and our allies could see her as a liability, it was far better than leaving our relationship with her unknown. It was safer for her that we claimed her under our protection, and it allowed us to keep her close all the time. The only trade-off was that there was no escape from any of this.
Considering the abandonment issues I so clearly had, I wouldn’t fucking complain. I nearly shook my head at that as I used my foot to push open the door to my bedroom suite. Twenty something years, and I hadn’t worried about anyone leaving me; rather, I preferred it. Now this slice of perfection steps into my life and I’m suddenly terrified that she was going to walk right back out, taking her radiant sunshine with her.
Could you blame me though? To be so close to having Dahlia and having her ripped away would fucking gut me.
I think that was in part why the incident with the Denim Moths enraged me so much. Not only had they taken such direct action to threaten her, but the concept of losing her—especially in such a jarring way, to complete fucking idiots—made me furious. I had dealt with far more dangerous shit than that, and normally I wouldn’t have thought twice about the gun in that asshole’s hand, but one that close to Dahlia? That had me pausing. That had me panicking, and that panic had put her in danger.
I knew she didn’t blame me, but that didn’t change that I blamed myself.
“Dermot.” Her voice was a soft purr that had a depth of seduction that instantly had my entire body hardening. I knew she didn’t realize it. It was why I was hesitant to lay her out on the massive bed that took up the majority of the comfortable room. I didn’t think she realized how close I was to giving into this lust that continuously slammed into me in her presence.
Especially after dealing with such bullshit from my father, I wanted to bury myself inside of her and forget about anything but her soft moans.
“Yeah, baby girl?” I set her down gently on my massive bed, her tiny, curvy frame swamped by the large, dark covers. I kicked off my shoes before leaning down and gently pulling off her heels, her red toenail polish somehow managing to turn me on… which should have been fucking weird but wasn’t.
“You just seem…” She hesitated and then frowned. “Not upset exactly, just stuck in your own head.”
“I am,” I admitted. “I don’t like that my father’s arrival was so soon after we got here. It meant that he was well aware of our plans, which we had kept pretty much a secret until an hour or so before landing. It just feels off to me.”
“He lives close to here, right?” she whispered.
“Yeah, but he’s a piece of shit and usually busy with his own affairs.”
Dahlia gently pulled on my shirt, looking worried and wanting me close, and I easily lifted her by the waist and gently tossed her further back on the bed, a small laugh escaping her lips at the slight jostle. I crawled over her and trapped her between my arms as her long, elegant fingers brushed through my hair, causing me to lean into her hand.
I wanted to find comfort in Dahlia; I wanted to tell her about how much I truly hated my father. About what an abusive bastard he’d been. I wanted to tell her that she grounded me in reality when normally what had happened earlier would have set me off worse than King. I wanted to tell her just how much she meant to me. But none of the words that formed on my lips were the right ones. I was absolute shite when it came to anything like this.
“How long have you been living here instead of with your father?” she asked intuitively, the dark room casting shadows on her face that were only illuminated by the fireplace.
Thunder cracked and I could feel a storm charging the air, making me wish that I was outside so that it could wash over me. Sometimes, after a particularly bad night with my father, I would do exactly that, walking around until the blood washed off my face.
“Since about sixteen,” I admitted, brushing my lips over her cheekbones. Since I was old enough and big enough that I could fight back. I didn’t include that part, though.