Chapter 81 CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE | DARK DESIRES

Chapter 81 CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE | DARK DESIRES
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE | DARK DESIRES

DARIUS

The door closed behind her with a soft sound, almost gentle, and yet it cut through the room louder than my earlier rage. The scent of her came with her, warm and faintly sweet, mixing with dust and broken glass and anger. I didn’t turn at first. I wanted to feel her presence before I saw it.

She stood there quietly, like she always did when she sensed my mood. Smart girl. Beautiful too. Her skin caught the low light, smooth and unmarked, untouched by the mess I had made of the room and of everything else. I heard her breathing, slow and careful, like she was approaching a wounded animal.

“Leave,” I said, though my voice lacked force.

She didn’t.

I turned then, my eyes landing on her. Her name rested on my tongue but I didn’t say it yet. Saying her name always felt like admitting something I refused to own. She wore silk, deep red, clinging without trying. It annoyed me how easily she disarmed me just by standing there.

“You’re bleeding,” she said softly, nodding at the small cut on my knuckle.

“I don’t feel it,” I replied.

She stepped closer anyway. Each step was measured. Careful. Dangerous. She reached for my hand without asking. I should have pulled away. I didn’t. Her fingers closed around mine, warm against the cold anger still sitting in my bones.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured.

“I’m not.”

She looked up at me then, really looked, her eyes dark and steady. “You are.”

Something snapped.

I grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer than either of us expected. Her breath hitched, just once. Not fear. Not fully. That pleased me more than it should have.

“You shouldn’t stay when I tell you to go,” I said.

Her lips curved slightly. “You don’t mean it.”

I laughed low, bitter. “You think you know me?”

“I know when you’re about to destroy something,” she said. “Or someone.”

Her honesty was sharp. It cut deeper than lies ever could. I tightened my grip for a second, then loosened it. I traced my thumb over the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse jump under my skin.

“Careful,” I warned. “That confidence will get you killed one day.”

“Maybe,” she replied quietly. “But not tonight.”

I let go of her wrist slowly. She didn’t step back. Instead, she reached for my chest, flattening her palm over my heart. The contact was simple. Too simple. And yet my body reacted like she had struck a match.

“You’re angry,” she whispered. “And you’re tired.”

I closed my eyes. Her touch grounded me, and I hated that. I hated that something so soft could have power over me. I hated that I wanted more.

“You always come when I’m like this,” I said.

“Because you let me,” she answered.

I opened my eyes again. “Don’t confuse permission with safety.”

She smiled faintly. “I never do.”

I leaned down, close enough to feel her breath against my mouth, close enough that she could feel the threat in the silence. I didn’t kiss her. I wanted to. Instead, I spoke against her lips.

“Do you know what they say about me?”

Her fingers tightened slightly on my chest. “They say many things.”

“That I ruin everything I touch,” I said. “That I don’t love. That I take.”

Her voice didn’t waver. “And yet you haven’t taken me.”

The truth of that sat heavy between us.

I slid my hand to her waist, resting it there, not pulling, not pushing. Just holding. The promise of force without its use. Her body leaned into mine without thinking. I felt the heat of her through the thin fabric. I felt how easily I could break her. How easily I could lose myself.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Because you called for no one,” she replied. “And I came anyway.”

Dangerous answer.

I moved us backward until her back brushed the table. Glass crunched under my boot. I boxed her in with my body but kept my hands steady, controlled. Her eyes searched my face, not pleading, not afraid. Curious. Wanting.

“You should fear me,” I said.

“I do,” she whispered. “That’s not the same as wanting you gone.”

My jaw tightened. I traced a finger up her throat, stopping just under her chin, lifting her face. Her lips parted slightly, breath uneven now. Still no begging. Still brave.

“You don’t know what you’re inviting,” I murmured.

“I know exactly who you are,” she said. “I see it when you think no one does.”

That was a lie. Or maybe it wasn’t. Either way, it struck deep.

I leaned in, brushing my forehead against hers, breathing her in. I stayed there, suspended, letting the tension stretch until it hurt. Until it begged to be broken.

But I didn’t break it.

Instead, I stepped back.

She blinked, surprised. The loss of my warmth left her visibly shaken. I watched it happen and felt a dark satisfaction settle in my chest.

“Go,” I said softly this time.

She hesitated. “Darius…”

“Go,” I repeated.

She studied my face, searching for something, then nodded once. She turned and walked to the door, her steps slower now, heavier.

Just before she reached it, I spoke again.

“Stay close tonight,” I said. “But not here.”

She looked back, eyes glowing with something unreadable. “As you wish.”

When she left, the room felt colder. Quieter. My anger was still there, but it had shifted, sharpened, focused.

I picked up the message again, read the words about Ronan, about Aspen, about the land that would soon bleed.

I hated how I chased my wife away but let a concubine in. I felt guilty knowing fully how much I love her, but I just finished having sex with a concubine.

I want to have her too, but the guilt is eating me up, so bad. I want to end Ronan and Aspen, but at the same time also make love with my wife without feeling guilty.