Page 10 of His Dark Desires

I untie her wrists, hand her a few tissues, then take a moment to collect myself. The silence stretches between us, heavy and thick like the air before a storm.

She sits up and tries to pat at her back, her eyes lowered, saying nothing. We're strangers again, our true selves hidden in the shadows of our respective desires.

"Get cleaned up," I say, my voice distant, resigned. "There's a private bathroom through that door. Everything you need is inside."

She nods, still saying nothing. I hear the soft rustle of her dress as she slips it back on, the faint click of her heels as she moves to the bathroom. The door closes behind her.

Alone, I finally allow myself to breathe, my actions bearing down on me. I rake my hands through my hair, my mind replaying the events of the night.

Sophia's face flashes before me—her reactions, her uncertainty, the tentative acceptance in her eyes. I clench my fists, my knuckles white. The familiar demon of self-loathing rises, its tendrils wrapping around my throat.

I'm a fraud. A monster. The very idea of deserving her feels like a betrayal to her innocence. Yet I can't deny the obsession, the craving to possess and protect her at all costs. It's twisted, possibly even dangerous. But it's real.

The sound of Celeste running water in the bathroom pulls me back into the moment. Without another thought, I dress quickly. The two of us, we're done here. My head is filled with thoughts of Sophia—and I'll sort them out later. But one thing matters above all right now.

I need to be gone by the time Celeste finishes.

Chapter 3

Sophia

I blink awake to sunlight filtering through paint-splattered windows. My small bedroom swims into focus—paintings lean against every wall, some complete, others abandoned. Paint tubes and brushes litter the floor in organized chaos, a rainbow trail leading to my easel in the corner.

Rolling onto my side, my oversized T-shirt twisted around me, I take in the familiar mess. Half-finished sketches paper the walls, held up by bits of masking tape. A stack of art books teeters precariously on my nightstand next to an empty wine glass from last night's celebration.

Last night. The gallery opening. My heart flutters at the memory. The crowd, the praise, the sales. It still feels surreal, like a dream I might wake from at any moment. And him—Adrian. My new patron. I think I knew I'd accept his offer before he even left.

The way he looked at my work...

I realize with a little smile that my apartment reflects my current state of mind—chaotic but alive with possibility. Paint-stained drop cloths protect the worn hardwood floors. My coffee table doubles as a palette, its surface thick with dried layers of color. Even my tiny kitchenette hasn't escaped: Brushes soak in jars by the sink, and reference photos cover the fridge.

"This is real," I whisper to myself, running my hands over my face. "This actually happened."

But uncertainty creeps in with the morning light. Can I live up to these expectations? Do I deserve this chance? The questions swirl as I stretch my arms overhead, joints popping.

My bare feet touch the cool floor. A half-finished piece catches my eye. Broad strokes of deep blues and purples swirling into darkness. Something about it reminds me of Adrian's penetrating stare.

I pad across the floor, careful to avoid stepping on any stray tools. My reflection in the paint-flecked mirror shows sleep-mussed hair and wide eyes still holding last night's wonder. I'm wearing my favorite sleep shirt, which is covered in abstract paint splatters from countless late-night sessions.

Somewhere outside, a car horn honks, reminding me the rest of the world exists beyond these walls. But in here, in my cluttered sanctuary, last night's triumph lingers around me, as tangible as fresh varnish.

"Time to wake up!" I sing to myself, walking over to the kitchenette to prepare coffee.

Only when the coffee pot spurts to life do I feel a sense of normalcy return to my bones. I grab my chipped "Art Is Life" mug from the cabinet and breathe in the rich aroma of brewing coffee. The morning light dances through wisps of vapor floating up from the coffee maker, and my mind wanders back to how Adrian examined my work yesterday evening, his eyes lingering on each piece.

No one's ever looked at my work like that before. Like he could see straight through the canvas and into my soul. Most people nod politely, make vague comments about the "interesting use of color." But Adrian... he understood. He picked up on the shifts in texture, the hidden meanings.

My eyes drift to the pile of bills on my counter, their red "PAST DUE" stamps glaring at me. The sight used to make my stomach clench, but today feels different. Adrian's commission could change everything. No more choosing between art supplies and groceries. No more lying awake at night wondering if I'll have to give up my dreams and get a "real job."

The coffee maker gurgles its last drops. I pour myself a cup, letting the warmth seep into my hands. The bitter taste brings back memories of late nights in Daniel's studio, back when I thought we were building something real together.

God, Daniel. My shoulders tense at the thought of him. He started out so supportive, always praising my "potential." But as my work started getting noticed, something changed. The compliments turned backhanded.Interesting choice, he'd say in that condescending tone.Though maybe a bit derivative?

Every success of mine became a threat to him.

I take another sip of coffee, trying to wash away the bitter taste of those memories. The day I finally left, he'd "accidentally" knocked over my latest piece, the one the local arts magazine had praised. It toppled into some of his paint cans he'd left open. His face showed no remorse, just that smug satisfaction I'd grown to hate.

Daniel would have hated my recent paintings, called them "uncontrolled." But Adrian... Adrian saw exactly what I was trying to say. His eyes lit up with genuine understanding, not jealousy.

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