Page 57 of His Dark Cravings

I'm here with too many thoughts to even keep track of.

Chapter 18

Everly

As soon as I wake up the next morning, I reach for my phone, the screen a harsh brightness in the low light. I dial Ember's Glow, my finger hovering before I press send. The voice on the other end is warm, concerned.

"Everly, is everything okay?"

"I need a few days," I manage with a whisper. "Personal stuff."

Their understanding is palpable, a balm to my raw nerves. "Take all the time you need," they say.

Gratitude and guilt twist in my chest as I hang up.

The phone slips from my fingers, landing on the floor. My gaze drifts to the closed door, where the faintest knock earlier went unanswered. Winter, perhaps, or Xavier. Maybe both. I should reach out, apologize, but my emotions are too much to bear.

The room feels cold, though I'm bundled under the blanket. I pull it tighter, but it offers little comfort. My body aches, my mind a jumble of thoughts I can't untangle. The truth about Talon, the way Xavier pushed me to submit, the comfort Winter offered—each memory is a fresh wound.

I think of their faces, the support they've given, and the apologies I owe. But for now, I'm trapped in this cycle of guilt and exhaustion, unable to escape.

So I just give in.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been in bed—days blend together in a blur of nothingness. The faucet drips, a steady beat in the quiet. My body feels heavy, unmoored, as if it’s sunk into the mattress and can’t climb back out.

The door creaks open at some point, and I know it’s him without turning my head. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask how I’m doing. The bed dips under his weight, and before I can react, his arms are around me, lifting me as though I weigh nothing. My body goes limp, too exhausted to fight, too broken to care.

He carries me up the stairs, my face pressed against his chest, the scent of him grounding me somehow. I catch glimpses of the hallway, the chandelier, the landing—things I’ve seen before but never truly noticed. His grip is firm but gentle, and I feel a flicker of something other than pain.

He pushes open a door I’ve never been through before. The room is vast, with high ceilings and windows that let in streams of sunlight. The bed is enormous, its frame dark and sleek, with pillows stacked neatly against the headboard. It’s beautiful, but it’s also empty. Like it’s waiting for someone to fill it.

The bathroom is off to the side, and he carries me there, setting me down on the edge of the tub. I don’t have the energy to look up, to meet his eyes, to do anything but sit there. The sound of running water fills the room, and then he’s back, lifting me again.

The tub is full, the water steaming. I smell lavender and chamomile, scents that should be comforting but feel distant, as though they’re reaching me through a fog. He undresses me methodically, piece by piece, his hands efficient but gentle. I don’t feel embarrassment, don’t feel anything, really. I’m just a body, a shell, a thing to be bathed.

When I’m naked, he lifts me again, cradling me in his arms. He steps into the tub, lowering us both into the water. It’s hot, almost too much, but I don’t flinch. He holds me close, my back against his chest, and I let myself sink into it, into him, into the warmth.

He tilts my head back, his fingers working through my hair. The water supports me, and I let it, let him, let everything. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask me to speak. He just takes care of me.

And for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I let someone else hold the weight.

The warmth of the water seeps into my bones, but I’m numb, like I’m floating outside my body, watching this scene unfold without really being in it. Xavier’s hands move over my body, his fingers gliding along my skin as he works up a lather in a washcloth. He starts with my shoulders, the strokes gentle but firm, as though he knows the weight pressing down on me goes far deeper than the surface.

I don’t pull away when he tilts my head back, his fingers combing through the tangles in my hair. He doesn't miss a spot, and there’s something in the way he holds me—like I’m fragile, breakable, and he’s determined not to let anything happen to me.

The water laps against the sides of the tub, a rhythmic sound that’s almost soothing. His fingers skim my ribs, and I flinch, the movement involuntary. He pauses, his touch hovering just above my skin before he continues, slower now, as though he’s gauging how much I can handle. I let him keep going, too exhausted to fight, too raw to care.

The washcloth drifts lower, tracing the flare of my hips, the curve of my thighs. I keep waiting, but he doesn’t push me to talk, doesn’t demand anything from me. He just... is here. Steady, a silent presence that fills the space around me without crowding me. Xavier keeps washing me, piece by piece, like he’s trying to scrub away not just the dirt but the brokenness beneath.

I don’t know how long we stay like that. Time feels elastic, stretching and shrinking until it’s meaningless. All I know is the warmth, the quiet, and the unrelenting care of the man behind me. I let myself lean on someone else.

I let him hold me together until my eyes grow heavy.

When I open my eyes again, I'm not in the tub. I sit up slowly, feeling the soft fabric of loungewear against my skin. The room is quiet. It’s Xavier’s room, I can feel it in the air, the scent of him lingering faintly even though he’s not here.

My hands tremble as I press them against the mattress to steady myself. The memory hits me hard, the way he held me, the way he didn’t ask questions, the way he just took care of me. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and before I can stop them, they spill over, rolling down my cheeks. I wipe them away with the sleeve of my shirt, my breath hitching as I try to pull myself together.

I don’t know where Xavier is, but I need to find him. I need to thank him, to tell him... I don’t know what, exactly, but I need to see him.

---