Page 38 of Dark Possession
I don’t react, keeping my expression unreadable. Showing weakness in front of men like them is an invitation to be torn apart.
“Understood,” I say, my voice devoid of anything but cold acceptance.
Ivan chuckles, breaking the moment. “Good. Dimitri will need you straight away.”
Dimitri leans back in his chair, finally breaking eye contact with me to look at Ivan. “I don’t need help.”
Ivan swirls the amber liquid in his glass. “You’ve got a problem brewing with our…rivals,” he continues, ignoring Dimitri’s protest. “And I wanthimin the middle of it. Consider it a test.”
A test. That’s what this is.
Dimitri exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “If I wanted him, I would have asked.”
Ivan’s smirk deepens. “And yet, here we are.”
I glance at Dimitri, watching as his jaw tightens. He doesn’t like being undermined. That much is obvious.
I just nod. “I won’t disappoint you.”
Ivan’s smirk sharpens, his amusement laced with warning. “You’d better not.”
Dimitri still doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He just watches me, his presence a silent threat, a reminder that from this moment forward, my life isn’t my own.
And if I fail?
I won’t get the chance to make another mistake.
I turn to Dimitri. “Where and when do you need me?”
His lip twitches in something that isn’t quite a smirk. “I’ll be in contact.”
His tone is dismissive, but there’s something more behind it—a test for him as well as from Ivan.
I nod and rise, buttoning my suit jacket. Ivan raises his glass in a farewell gesture, amusement glinting in his eyes.
I leave the room and don’t look back.
By the time I get home, the tension in my chest eases. As I step through the door, something shifts. The air inside is warm, carrying the scent of something slow-roasted—garlic, herbs, something rich and comforting. It’s the kind of smell that makes a man forget, even if just for a second, that his hands are stained with blood.
Alina is in the kitchen, humming softly, her hair swept up in a messy bun, a few loose strands slipping free. A candle flickers on the table, casting a golden glow across her face. It’s domestic. Safe. A world away from the one I just came from.
She turns when she hears me, her lips curving into a soft smile. “You’re home.”
For a moment, I just look at her. She’s standing there barefoot, wearing one of my shirts over her leggings, the cook’s apron dusted with flour. She shouldn’t fit into my life. Not in the world I live in. But somehow, she does.
“You didn’t have to go all out,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “I have a cook for this.” My eyes move over the table—roasted meat, warm bread, some kind of pasta that smells like home. It’s the kind of meal a man could get used to, the kind that makes him want things he has no right to.
She shrugs, placing a plate in front of me, her fingers grazing mine for the briefest second. “I like to cook,” she says. “And I just thought…we could use a quiet night.”
I don’t argue. Instead, I sit, watching as she moves around the kitchen, pouring wine, setting out utensils. She’s graceful in the smallest ways, even when she doesn’t try to be.
For a while, it almost feels normal.
We eat, and she talks—about a book she’s been reading.
Alina twirls her fork in her pasta, eyes lighting up as she talks. “So, the hero spends half the book brooding in the shadows, watching the heroine from afar. He’s all tortured and mysterious, but—”
“Let me guess,” I cut in, smirking. “He doesn’t actuallydoanything?”
