Page 37 of His Dark Desires

Mara's dark eyes meet mine, and I catch a flicker of... sympathy? Amusement? It's gone before I can parse it. She sets the bags on a nearby table, tissue paper crinkling as she begins removing items.

"These should be more suitable," she says, laying out some pieces. The tags are still attached, and I deliberately avoid looking at the prices.

My stained sweater suddenly feels like a child's security blanket. I wrap my arms around myself, acutely aware of both their stares.

"I didn't ask for—" I start to say, but Adrian's hand lands on my shoulder again, silencing me.

A silk blouse slithers across the table as Mara unfolds it. My fingers twitch, wanting to touch it but afraid of leaving smudges. The neckline plunges deep—deeper than anything I'd dare wear to a gallery opening. Next comes the pants, their crisp lines and high waist speaking of boardrooms and champagne parties, not my usual haunts of coffee shops and dusty studios. They'd show every curve, leave nowhere to hide. The burgundy blazer steals my breath. It's the color of mulled wine. Together, these pieces paint a picture of someone else entirely—a woman who commands attention, who doesn't apologize for taking up space.

Adrian's hand still rests heavy on my shoulder while Mara continues arranging outfits. Each new item she reveals feels like another brick in a wall I'm being asked to build around myself. I open my mouth to protest, to ask about Marina's grant, but Adrian's fingers flex slightly against my collarbone. The questions die in my throat as Mara holds up a pair of stilettos.

This isn't me. But maybe that's exactly the point.

"I trust these will help you feel more... secure," Adrian says, voice honeyed. "After all, with your student loans and gallery fees taken care of, you can focus on presenting yourself properly."

A wave of nausea sweeps through me. The reminder of his generosity—the mountain of debt he erased with a single transaction—hits me like a punch to the gut. The memory of watching years of financial burden disappear now feels less like freedom and more like shackles.

I glance at Mara, hoping to find an ally, but her dark eyes assess me clinically. There's something in her expression—a warning, perhaps—that makes me swallow the questions about Marina's grant that had been burning on my tongue.

The silk blouse whispers against the table as Mara adjusts it, the sound oddly threatening in the loaded silence. These clothes, these expensive chains dressed up as gifts, represent everything I've tried to avoid—dependency, obligation, control.

"Thank you," I finally manage stiffly, the words tasting like ash. My voice comes out smaller than I intend, and I hate how easily I've been maneuvered into compliance. The paint stains on my sweater now feel like badges of resistance rather than marks of unprofessionalism.

Adrian's hand slides from my shoulder to the nape of my neck, his thumb brushing against my pulse point. The gesture seems caring to anyone watching, but I feel the possession in his touch, the subtle reminder of his power over me.

"Mara will help you try these on," he says, as if my agreement is already secured. And isn't it? What choice do I really have when my freedom from debt hangs by threads as delicate as the silk before me?

"Now I can't even put on clothing myself?" I grumble.

I feel Adrian stiffen, fingers curling around the back of my neck. "I don't know. Can you?" he says into my face, and the question in his expression makes me wonder if he actually wants to know the answer.

I glare openly up at him. What the hell has gotten into him?

Adrian's hand leaves my neck, and suddenly, his palm strikes between my shoulder blades. The force pitches me forward, my hands bracing against the desk as my mouth drops open in shock.

"Get back to work," he says, voice clipped and cold. "I'll check in with you later, and I expect to see improvement."

As he walks away, my spine tingles where he hit me—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind me of his strength. The studio door clicks shut behind him and Mara, leaving me alone with the pile of designer clothes and my racing thoughts.

I slump into my chair, the expensive fabric surrounding me like silent witnesses to my submission. Has Adrian always been like this? The way he dismissed Marina's setback, the timing of these gifts, the subtle threats wrapped in kindness—were there signs I missed? Or did I choose to ignore them, seduced by his charm and generosity?

My fingers find the blouse, trailing over its liquid surface. The fabric feels like a caress, promising luxury and belonging. Part of me yearns to slip it on, to transform into the polished artist Adrian envisions. Another part recoils at how easily he's boxing me in, using debt and opportunity as pretty cage bars.

I can't untangle whether I feel protected or possessed. What disturbs me most is how I crave both sensations, even as they get tighter.

Chapter 11

Sophia

The honey in my chai latte swirls as I stir, creating amber patterns that remind me of my latest painting. Across the worn wooden table, Mara takes careful sips of her coffee, black as her bob cut.

We're at the café she wanted to meet at, and the exposed brick walls and mismatched vintage furniture feel like a rebellion against Adrian's chrome-and-glass world. Sunlight streams through tall windows, catching dust motes that dance above coffee grounds and fresh pastries. The barista's machine hisses and spurts, punctuating the low murmur of conversation. A bell chimes as the door opens, letting in bursts of cool air and new customers who squeeze between the crowded tables.

Mara looks different here. Her cream cashmere sweater softens her edges, and dark jeans replace her usual tailored pants. Yet she still commands attention—several patrons glance her way, drawn to her quiet authority.

I shift in my seat, the black wrap dress pulling across my thighs, its subtle draping designed to flatter every curve. My ankle boots pinch with each movement, their leather still too stiff. Adrian selected everything, down to the underwear. The outfit makes me look like I belong in his world of steel and success, but my fingers keep reaching for the nonexistent paint stains and familiar worn spots of my old clothes.

A group of art students crowds the table next to us, their bags overflowing with sketchbooks and supplies. One girl's paint-splattered jeans catch my eye, and my chest tightens with longing. Just last month, I was one of them—messy, struggling, but free.

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