Page 38 of His Dark Desires

The honey in my chai tastes too sweet now, cloying against my tongue as Mara watches me with those calculating dark eyes.

I take another sip of chai, letting my gaze drift to the bustling street outside. The past week floods back—endless hours in that pristine studio, surrounded by more supplies than I'd ever dreamed of owning. But right now is the first time I've felt my thoughts settling into place.

Away from Adrian's pull, everything comes into sharper focus.

In the penthouse, his aura fills every corner, making my skin buzz and my mind scatter like startled birds. Even when he's not there, the weight of his attention lingers in the space, in every brush and tool placed just so. The endless windows frame the city like one of his surveillance screens, making me feel both elevated and exposed.

Here, in this worn chair with its stuffing peeking through the cracks, I can breathe. My thoughts are my own again, not tangled up in the electricity that crackles between us whenever he's near. The coffee shop's gentle chaos grounds me in a way the penthouse's sterile perfection never could.

"How are you finding the penthouse workspace?"

Mara's question interrupts my reverie. Her tone is casual, but there's something beneath it—a careful probe, like a doctor pressing to find a tender spot. I meet her eyes, noting how they narrow slightly, searching my face.

The students next to us burst into laughter over a shared joke, and I welcome the brief distraction. My fingers trace the rim of my mug as I consider how to answer. With Mara, I sense that every word carries special meaning, that this conversation is more than just friendly small talk over coffee.

"The workspace is incredible," I start, running my finger along a scratch in the wooden table. "The lighting alone would have cost—"

"And Adrian?" Mara asks, her voice dropping lower. "How are you finding him?"

The chai goes down hard, making me wince. I set my mug down, buying time as I study her face. Her posture is a little more relaxed. But those dark eyes miss nothing, tracking every micro-expression that crosses my face.

The question dangles between us like a baited hook. My mind flashes to Adrian's mouth on my pussy, the way his control both thrills and terrifies me. But Mara's watching, waiting, and I sense this moment matters more than it appears.

I straighten my spine, squaring my shoulders. "He's... a lot." That feels inadequate, but it's honest. "Sometimes I feel like I'm being swept up in a current, and I'm not sure where it's taking me."

Mara nods knowingly. The café's warmth suddenly feels stifling, and I resist the urge to tug at my dress's neckline.

"Adrian can be overwhelming," she says. Her posture may be relaxed, but there's nothing casual about the way she watches me process this conversation.

I take another sip of chai, letting its warmth steady me. "Yes," I say finally. "But I think you already knew that."

Mara swirls her coffee, her dark nails tapping against the ceramic. "Adrian has a particular way of doing things," she says. "Everything must be just so."

I think of the penthouse studio, how the paints are arranged by shade and tone. Even the light switches have specific settings marked in red.

"I noticed."

"And how are you finding his... suggestions about your work?"

The question pricks at a scab inside me. I remember his hands ghosting over my sketches, redirecting lines, adjusting compositions.

"He's very involved."

"He tends to be when something catches his interest." Mara's lips curve slightly. "Though I must say, your work caught his attention quite early on."

My fingers still on my mug. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, those pieces you sold at the Riverside Gallery. Two years ago, wasn't it? That small collection about urban isolation." She takes another sip, eyes never leaving my face. "Adrian was quite taken with them."

I feel my hand getting slippery around my mug as my heart speeds up. My only pieces on that day were sold to A.V. Holdings.

Adrian.

The chai turns bitter on my tongue. I think of the crumpled receipts in my drawer, the pattern of purchases I'd discovered. The anonymous email warning suddenly feels more real. Shit, wait.

Daniel didn't send that email.

Sometimes the ones who admire you most are the ones you see the least. They know more than you think.

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