Page 34 of His Dark Desires

I wipe paint from my hands with a damp cloth, the smears of crimson and gold refusing to budge from my skin. The studio feels different now—emptier without Adrian. My finished piece dominates the far wall, still wet and gleaming under the lighting he installed.

The painting speaks of everything I couldn't say out loud. Digital streams of data intertwine with human forms, their bodies arching toward each other in desperate need. Binary code wraps around bare limbs like chains, while circuits pulse with an almost organic warmth. At the center, a woman reaches for an ethereal figure made of light and shadow—their fingertips nearly touching in a way that makes my chest tight.

My hands still tingle where Adrian gripped them earlier. I flex my fingers, remembering how he took control, how his breath felt against my neck.

I should pack up, leave. But my feet won't move toward the door. Instead, I circle the studio again, straightening things that don't need straightening, hoping to hear his footsteps returning.

The painting mocks me with its honesty—desire laid bare in oil and canvas. I'd started it to explore the intersection of technology and humanity, but somewhere along the way, it became about hunger, about submission and control. About the way Adrian makes me feel when he watches me paint, his eyes following each movement like he's claiming it as his own.

My phone sits silent. No messages. No explanation for his absence. Just the quiet hum of the ventilation system and my own racing thoughts. I rub at my forehead, staring at the studio door. Adrian has been gone all day. What if I leave without seeing him again today?

My feet carry me to the doorway before I can talk myself out of it. The penthouse stretches before me, all clean lines and polished surfaces. I've never ventured beyond the studio and living room before.

"Adrian?" My voice sounds small in the vast space.

No answer.

This is probably inappropriate. I should wait in the studio. But something pulls me forward.

His office must be nearby. I could claim I got lost looking for the bathroom if anyone asks. My heart pounds as I edge further into the hallway, my fingers touching the cool wall for balance.

The living space stretches out like a museum after hours—all clean lines and perfect angles. Moonlight spills through floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on chrome fixtures and glass surfaces. Everything gleams with the cold precision of a surgeon's tools.

My feet sink into plush carpet as I move deeper into the room. No family photos on the walls, no books left carelessly on tables. Even the throw pillows on the leather couch sit at exact right angles, untouched by human comfort.

On the other side of the room and at the far end of another hallway, a faint red glow bleeds from beneath a door, pulling me forward like a moth to flame. The carpet muffles my steps, but my heart pounds so loud I'm sure someone must hear it. That part of the penthouse feels different. The sterile museum quality gives way to something else.

I pause, listening to the alarm bells ringing in my mind. Behind me is the safety of the studio. But if I go forward, I'll plunge deeper into shadow, toward that beckoning light. My fingers twist in the hem of my shirt.

"Just turn around," I whisper to myself. But my feet are already moving, drawn by an inner restlessness.

It feels like the hallway narrows to a single point as I creep closer. The walls close in, painted a deep black that absorbs what little light remains. My shoulder bumps against the wall, and I jerk away, suddenly aware of how far I've strayed from where I'm supposed to be.

But that door... something about it makes my skin prickle. It's different from the others—heavier, with a gleaming handle. The metal looks warm to the touch, inviting.

My hand lifts of its own accord. The handle is inches away. One touch and I'll know what lies beyond.

I take a deep breath. I want to know—what else is there to Adrian Vale?

A sudden movement makes me jump back with a strangled gasp. Mara stands there, materializing like a ghost from the right hallway I hadn't even noticed. She positions herself between me and that red-lit door, her stance casual but unmistakably blocking my path. Her dark eyes pin me in place, but I catch the dark circles under her eyes. She looks tired, like she's been awake way too long.

"Looking for something?" Mara's voice carries its usual professional polish, but underneath runs a current of steel.

"I—" My mouth goes dry. "I needed to ask Adrian about..." The words trail off as my mind blanks. Heat crawls up my neck.

Mara's eyebrow lifts slightly. "Yes? What did you need to ask him?"

"Just..." I twist my fingers together. "About the commission." Even to my own ears, the excuse sounds pathetic.

Her expression doesn't change, but somehow, she seems more intimidating than before. "I can help with any questions about the commission," Mara says, her voice smooth as silk. "Adrian shares everything with me. We work very closely together." She takes a step forward, and I instinctively back up. "What specifically did you want to know?"

My mouth opens and closes. The way she says "everything" makes my stomach twist. How close are they really? I try to conjure up a legitimate question about the project, but my mind is filled only with that red glow behind the door and the possessive way Mara guards it.

"I..." My voice comes out small. "It's not important. I should go back to the studio."

Mara's lips curve into something between a smile and a smirk. "Are you sure? I know all of Adrian's preferences. His vision. His... requirements."

I feel hot as I realize how foolish I must look, wandering where I shouldn't be, unable to even fabricate a proper excuse. The confidence I felt while painting earlier evaporates under her knowing stare.

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