Page 40 of His Dark Cravings

Curiosity wins out over hesitation, and I take a step forward, my shoes crunching on the gravel. Xavier follows. The air feels lighter here, softer, and for the first time since I stepped into his world, I feel at ease.

When I step into the house, the air inside is thick with the scent of old books and something faintly floral, like the echo of a garden long past its bloom. The foyer is small, intimate, with cream-colored walls and dark wood floors that creak softly under my feet. A winding staircase curves upward, its banister worn smooth by years of touch. It’s nothing like Xavier’s home—this place feels lived in, human, its edges softened by time and memory.

Xavier watches me, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “You look like you want to ask a million questions,” he says, his voice lighter than I’ve ever heard it.

I nod, sheepish, but can’t help the way my eyes dart from one detail to the next. Every piece of furniture, every painting on the walls, tells a story.

He gestures for me to follow him, and I do, my shoes whispering against the floor. We move through a cozy living room and into a narrow hallway lined with doors. Xavier pushes one open, and I step through it, my breath catching.

The room is a gallery, its walls adorned with paintings. Vibrant colors clash and blend in swirling chaos. The art is unsettling, beautiful, and deeply haunting. It speaks of pain and joy, of fury and tenderness, all tangled together in a way that makes my chest tighten.

“These were my mother’s,” Xavier says softly, his voice low and reflective. He moves to stand beside me, his eyes on the painting in front of us—a storm of blues and blacks, with a single thread of gold breaking through the darkness. “She was a brilliant artist. But she struggled.”

I glance at him, seeing something in his expression I hadn’t before. Vulnerability.

“Struggled?” I repeat.

Xavier nods, his gaze returning to the painting. “With everything. With my father—with herself.” He pauses, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. “She was trapped in a life she didn’t want, with a man who... who didn’t love her. Not really. And she couldn’t escape. So she painted. It was her way of screaming, I think. Of letting it all out.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “It’s beautiful,” I say, though beautiful feels too small a word for it. It’s more than that—it’s a doorway into someone’s soul, someone who’s no longer here to explain the colors or the chaos.

Xavier’s eyes flick to mine. “Yeah,” he says finally. “It is.”

I take a step closer to the painting, my fingers itching to touch the canvas. “Why did you bring me here?”

He moves deeper into the gallery. I follow him, drawn by the quiet way he carries himself, as though this place is sacred.

When he speaks, it’s with a candor I’m not used to. “I wanted you to see this part of me. The part I don’t... that I don’t show anyone.”

I stop in front of a painting that’s different from the others—softer, with warm, golden tones and delicate brushstrokes. It’s of a woman, her face tilted upward, her eyes closed as though basking in sunlight. She’s serene, peaceful, and I see Xavier in her—the same jawline, the same sharp angles softened by something warmer.

“That’s her,” he says, his voice filled with a quiet reverence. “That’s my mother.”

I turn to look at him, and what I see in his eyes makes my breath hitch. Pain. Love. Regret. All swirling together in a way that makes my chest hurt.

“She was beautiful,” I say.

He nods, the movement small. “Yeah. She was.”

I glance around the room again, taking in the art, the colors, the emotion that clings to every piece. And I don’t just see paintings—I see Xavier. I see his reasons, his fears, his need for control. It’s all here, laid out in front of me, and it changes everything.

I turn back to him. “Why do you do it? The dolls, the dungeon. Why?”

He looks at me, his expression guarded for a moment before he exhales slowly. “Because I couldn’t save her.”

I take a step closer, my heart pounding in my chest. “And the dolls?” I ask, the question spilling out before I can pull it back. “How does any of this... relate to them?”

I wonder if I’ve crossed a line. But then, slowly, he says, “I couldn’t save her. But I can save them.”

“Save them?” I repeat, confusion knitting my brows. “From what?”

“From themselves. Lila, Winter, Sable—they all came to me broken, Everly. In their own ways. Lila with her debts, her addiction to the thrill. Winter with her need to lose control. Sable with her refusal to let anyone in. They’re all trapped, just like my mother was. And I...” He pauses, his jaw tightening. “I give them what they need.”

“And what’s that?”

His eyes lock onto mine, the intensity in them making my breath catch. “Control. Structure. A way to escape the chaos in their heads. They think they’re giving up power, but I’m taking it for them. I’m shielding them from making the same mistakes my mother did.”

“And you?” I ask, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest. “What do you get out of it?”

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