Page 21 of His Dark Cravings

My heart stutters, an unwelcome reaction. He steps farther in, a garment bag slung over his shoulder, and tosses it onto the bed beside me. The fabric inside rustles, a soft whisper.

I push the book aside and rise, my fingers instinctively smoothing the front of my simple cotton dress. It's modest, practical, a far cry from whatever he's brought for me to wear.

"Coming with you where?" I ask, reaching for the bag. I unzip it and reveal a dress that's anything but modest.

The fabric is rich, some blend of silk and something more luxurious. The neckline is deep, swooping in a way that would expose more than I'm comfortable showing. The sleeves are short, the skirt floor-length but slit high enough to reveal a glimpse of thigh with every step. It's elegant, yes, but undeniably provocative. I feel a flush rise to my cheeks as I take in the sheer audacity of the design.

"This... I don't know," I falter, glancing at him, hoping he'll see the hesitation in my eyes.

"Put it on," he commands. There's a flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he knows exactly how out of my depth I am.

I want to tell him to put the dress on himself, but I know he won't like that. Besides, I'm contracted to him. With a huff, I turn my back to him and shimmy out of the dress I was wearing. I slip the new dress over my shoulders, the cool fabric grazing my skin. Xavier steps closer, and the zipper hums as he pulls it up, his fingers touching my spine. I shiver despite myself, the touch sending a cascade of nerves through me.

I still haven't touched myself since he brought me so close to the edge.

When I turn to face him, he's already at the door, gesturing for me to follow. I hesitate, my mind racing with all the reasons I should say no, should stay here, should not let him pull me into whatever game he's playing tonight. But something about the way he's looking at me, like there's something underneath the surface I can't quite see, makes me move.

I trail behind him down the hall, the silky fabric of the dress whispering against my legs. We enter a room I've never seen before, one that feels like a bizarre cross between a salon and a theater dressing room. Bright vanity lights ring a large mirror, casting everything in a flattering glow. Several women are already here, their eyes landing on me. I recognize them as dolls, though their names escape me. They move toward me with a strange grace.

One with dark wavy hair and a constellation of freckles on her nose smiles. "Welcome, Everly. Let's get started."

Her voice is light, almost too sweet. I feel like a dress-up doll, being maneuvered without my input. The one on my left, a blonde with startlingly blue eyes, begins untying my ponytail, her fingers working quickly and carefully. They're experts. I try to relax, but my body is rigid.

"Just relax," the brunette says, placing a hand on my shoulder. "This will be painless."

I stare at myself in the mirror as they go to work, the transformation fast but thorough. They brush my hair back, then shape it into soft waves that cascade past my shoulders, a far cry from my plain style. Warm brushes kiss my cheeks and lips, tinting them with color. The effect is striking. When they're finished, my eyes look bigger, my lips fuller, my cheekbones more pronounced. I look like a different person. They’ve turned me into a vision of someone I barely recognize.

"There," the blonde declares, stepping back with a pleased expression. "Much better."

I study my reflection, my throat tight. I do look better, I must admit it, but it's not me. It's like they’ve taken who I am and twisted it with a kind of magic I don't understand. Or worse, like they've taken something that was already beautiful and made it something else.

Xavier steps into my line of sight, his reflection joining mine in the mirror. He looks at me, his gaze holding something akin to approval. He circles me slowly, taking in the final product from all angles before stopping directly behind me, his hands resting on my hips. They feel hot through the thin fabric.

"Perfect," he murmurs, his voice near my ear.

He turns me slightly and guides me out of the room, his grip surprisingly possessive.

"Where are we going?" I try to ask again, but Xavier simply pats my arm and leads me to the car.

I'm annoyed and scared at the same time.

The city lights strobe outside as we glide through the night. Xavier sits across from me, looking casual. I grip the edge of my seat, the dress clinging to me in ways that make me acutely aware of every curve of my body.

When we arrive at our destination, which turns out to be the Ravenwood, the surge of people at the entrance swallows us whole. The casino is a cacophony of sounds—laughter, clinking glasses, the rhythmic clatter of roulette wheels. I’m swept up in the tide, Xavier’s arm closing around my wrist, pulling me through the crowd. I stiffen, uncomfortable with the attention, every eye drawn to him, to us.

"Mr. Ravenwood," a voice calls out, smooth and booming.

Xavier turns, his smile wide and inviting, but there's a sharpness in his eyes that makes me realize how much of a performance this is. The man who approaches is middle-aged, with a cigar clenched between his teeth, his eyes roving over me before settling on Xavier's face.

"Back in the game tonight?" he asks, slapping Xavier on the back. The sound is loud, jarring, and I flinch, earning a quizzical glance from Xavier.

"Just here to enjoy the evening," he replies, his voice smooth as velvet. But there's a tension in his stance, a coiled readiness that doesn't match the easy smile.

The man nods, but his eyes linger on me, making me feel like a specimen under a microscope. "And who might this be? A new... friend?"

"Everly." Xavier’s voice is clipped, a clear dismissal. The man's smile widens, but he takes the hint, backing away with a raised glass and a knowing glint in his eye.

As the night wears on, I'm introduced to a parade of faces, each more polished and predatory than the last. Xavier moves through them with ease, a king in his domain, his charisma a force that draws people in. I watch him, fascinated despite myself, trying to reconcile this side of him with the man who stood in my bedroom and ordered me to wear a dress that feels like a second skin.

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