Page 7 of His Dark Desires

Adrian

The gallery's warmth fades behind me as I step out. The sidewalk gleams under the neon lights, still damp from an earlier rain. My pulse hasn't quite settled from our interaction—Sophia's effect stays with me. Mara falls into step beside me.

"I need you to ensure those pieces sell tonight. All of them," I order. "And make sure Marcus follows through on his offer."

"You mean the offer you arranged through the shell companies?" Mara pulls out her tablet, fingers dancing across the screen. "Already handled. Though I have to say, your little performance in there was... a lot."

"What do you mean?"

"Please. You practically devoured her with your eyes. So much for subtle." She glances up. "I thought we agreed you'd keep it professional."

"I was professional." The lie tastes bitter. My hands clench in my pockets as I recall how Sophia's eyes lit up discussing her work, the way her fingers danced as she described her process. The vulnerability in her expression when she mentioned what she tried to capture...

"Right. And I'm the Queen of England." Mara's typing pauses. "Look, I'll make sure everything goes smoothly with the sales. But Adrian..." She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "This obsession of yours, it's getting deeper. You're playing with fire."

"I'm protecting her."

"Still clinging to that?" The skepticism in her voice cuts through my defenses. "Because from where I stand, it looks an awful lot like—"

"Enough." The word comes out sharp enough to make her flinch. "Just handle the arrangements. That's all I need from you right now."

Mara's lips press into a thin line, but she nods. "Consider it done." She turns to leave, then pauses. "For what it's worth... she seemed genuinely taken with you. Maybe try actually getting to know her instead of..." She gestures vaguely. "All this."

I watch her walk away, her silhouette disappearing into the neon-lit night. The truth of her words settles uncomfortably in my chest. But I've come too far to change course now. Sophia needs my guidance, my protection, whether she knows it or not.

I slide into the back of my Bentley; the leather seat cools against my skin. The privacy partition rises silently as my driver pulls away from the curb. My fingers tap against my thigh, a restless rhythm matching the chaos in my mind.

Sophia's scent lingers in my memory—lavender and paint, an intoxicating mix. The way her breath caught when I mentioned the commission, how her fingers fidgeted with her glass, betraying her nerves even as she maintained that artistic confidence.

I pull out my phone, accessing the gallery's security feed. The cameras catch her still there, moving between her pieces, talking with potential buyers.Mybuyers, though she doesn't know it.

The satisfaction of orchestrating our meeting wars with an electric tension coursing through my veins. My control over the situation was perfect, each moment calculated, but it's not enough. The energy builds beneath my skin like a current seeking ground.

I press the intercom. "Change of plans. Take me to Dominion."

The car smoothly changes direction. I loosen my tie, letting out a breath. The exclusive club caters to very specific tastes—tastes that align with my need for absolute control. Tonight's successful manipulation has awakened something primal that demands physical expression.

The city blurs past my window, a kaleidoscope of neon and shadow. My thoughts drift between Sophia and the release that awaits me at the club. Two years of watching, planning, manipulating—and finally, contact. The reality of her exceeded every surveillance feed, every digital interaction I'd monitored.

The car slows to a stop in front of an unmarked building. Its plain exterior betrays nothing of what lies within. Perfect control requires perfect discretion, after all.

As I enter Dominion, the atmosphere changes, becoming dense with unspoken promises and dark potential. My shoes sink into deep crimson carpet as I pass through the reinforced doors. The head of security gives me a subtle nod. No words needed—he knows my preferences, my rules, my requirements for absolute discretion.

The main floor unfolds before me, a decadent display. Crystal chandeliers cast shadows across leather-clad surfaces and exposed skin. Private alcoves line the walls, each screened by translucent curtains that reveal just enough to tease. The central bar gleams obsidian, its surface reflecting fragments of light like broken mirrors.

Soft moans and sharp cracks of leather blend with the low, pulsing bass. The scent of expensive cologne mingles with sweat and desire. Everything here speaks of power—who has it, who craves it, who surrenders it.

I take in faces both masked and bare. Some avert their eyes. Others stare back with naked hunger. Here, at least, the game of control needs no pretense.

The club's exclusivity shows in its details: hand-stitched Italian leather furnishings, discrete panic buttons disguised as architectural elements, security cameras masked behind smoky glass. Every inch designed for pleasure without compromise of power.

A flash of red catches my eye—a woman at the bar, her posture radiating the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly what she wants. Her black dress hugs her curves like a second skin, the slit riding high enough to reveal a tasteful glimpse of thigh. Red hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, framing features that could cut glass.

Our eyes meet across the room. A flash of recognition crosses her face—not of who I am, but of what I represent. What I can offer. Her lips curve into a knowing smile as she takes a deliberate sip from her martini glass.

I cross the floor. Up close, her eyes are a striking amber, lined with black wings. A delicate collar adorns her neck—both jewelry and a statement of intent.

"Celeste," she offers, her breath carrying a hint of smoke.

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