Page 42 of His Dark Cravings

These thoughts consume my day. No one disturbs me, so I don't even think about leaving my room until dinner comes around. I take my time getting ready, feeling like everything is in slow motion. Distantly, I feel like I should move faster, but I can't bring myself to care all that much. I have more pressing things on my mind.

I stand before the open wardrobe, touching the silken folds of dresses, the smooth drape of blouses. Xavier’s restocked my closet with clothes that don’t belong to me. Not the me I’ve always been. These fabrics whisper secrets, luxurious and alluring.

Could I be the kind of girl who has secrets? Is that who I'm turning into?

At first, it startles me, this invasion of my space. But then, it makes sense. Why wouldn't he give me new clothes? He controls everything else here. Even me.

I scan the options, the jewel tones and rich textures. A silk dress in a deep, rich plum catches my eye—sleeves that fall just off the shoulder, a neckline that dips low but not too revealing. It’s modest, yet not. A compromise between the girl I’ve been and the woman I’m becoming.

I slip it on, the silk skating over my skin like a whisper. The fit is perfect, hugging my waist, skimming my hips. I’ve never owned a dress like this. It feels foreign, yet right, like I’ve shed a layer of skin and found what was underneath all along.

Or something.

I step into a pair of heeled ankle boots. My hair is loose, the waves spilling down my back. A touch of lipstick, something bold yet understated, and I’m done.

When I reach the dining room, they’re already seated. No doll is absent, each more polished than the last, their faces calm, collected. Xavier sits at the head of the table, his eyes flicking up as I enter.

“Good evening, Everly,” he says, his voice smooth as the claret in his glass. “You look lovely.”

I nod at his compliment and take my seat, the chair creaking softly. The table is set with fine china, crystal, and a centerpiece of white lilies that scent the air. The conversation begins to flow, polite and careful, but I’m quiet, my focus on the plate in front of me—roasted duck, seared to perfection.

The first bite of duck melts in my mouth, rich and buttery, but it’s hard to savor with Xavier’s eyes on me. It’s a steady weight. The conversation continues around us—a polite discussion about the upcoming charity gala Winter is attending—but I feel the shift in the room the moment Xavier sets his glass down.

“Everly,” he says, his voice like a velvet-wrapped blade, smooth but dangerous. “You were late.”

The room quiets, the other dolls’ eyes flicking toward me. Lila pauses with her fork halfway to her mouth, Winter’s smile slips, and Sable’s expression remains impassive, but her interest is palpable.

“I lost track of time,” I reply, keeping my tone steady, my focus on the food in front of me.

“Lost track of time.” He repeats it like it’s a foreign phrase, one he’s trying to understand. “That was careless of you. Everyone gathered here at the appointed time and waited for you.”

I lift my head, my eyes meeting his. “I wasn’t aware there was a strict curfew.”

“There isn’t,” he says, leaning back in his chair, though his posture remains anything but relaxed. “But there is courtesy. And respect for the people who share your table.”

Winter shoots me a warning glance, but I ignore it.

“And I appreciate that. But I had things on my mind.”

“Things?” Xavier raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Personal things?”

“Private things,” I correct.

He studies me, his green eyes narrowing slightly. After a moment of silence, he says, “Make sure you're not late next time, Everly.”

“No,” I say, and the word hangs in the air like a challenge.

The room goes still. Sable’s fork clatters against her plate, and Lila coughs softly into her napkin.

“What did you just say?” Xavier’s head tilts slightly.

“No,” I repeat, my voice even. “I won’t promise I won’t be late again. Some things... they take time. And I can’t promise they won’t distract me.”

Winter’s gaze drops to her plate, her shoulders stiff. Xavier, however, seems intrigued. His lips curve faintly, a small, private smile, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Is that so?” he murmurs, his voice low but sharp. “And what could possibly distract you so thoroughly?”

I don’t answer. The question is rhetorical, a probe to see how far I’ll push. Instead, I return to my meal, the clink of my fork against the plate the only sound I contribute to the conversation.

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