Page 85 of Lord of the Dark

And in the depths of my pleasure, in the pain I had begun tocrave, my body answered:

Yes.

I belong to you.

And when Carter began touching me with careful passion, something inside me shattered. Something dark. Something feral. Something only Russo had ever awakened in me.

I grabbed his face, pulled him to me, and kissed him—not tenderly, but greedily, as if I wanted to devour him. My tongue demanded entry between his lips, my bite soft but insistent. No whispers, no hesitation—just need. I wanted more. My nails dug into Carter's shoulders, deeper than I'd intended. I ground against him, my hips moving impatiently, as if driven by a force that had nothing to do with him.

I seized his hand, dragged it to my breast, forced him to grip harder—not to caress, but to take. To challenge. To feel.

Raw and uncontrolled, a moan escaped me—a voice that didn’t call for Carter. But for the darkness, for the heat, for the loss of control I had experienced with Russo. I didn’t want to be touched gently. I wanted to be used.

I leaned over him, dug my teeth into his lower lip: "Fuck me. Now. I want your cock," I challenged him, forced his hands to my hips.

"Harder, I want you to fuck me really hard," I growled against his mouth. I wanted to be pushed, driven to my limits, to the point where pain lifted my pleasure into new dimensions. I wanted to feel hands burning into my skin, every struggle against him only making me fall deeper. I wanted to forget—to lose myself in an ecstasy that knew no restraint, no doubt, only the intoxicating burn of a passion that silenced everything else.

Carter froze. His hands stilled. "Fiona... what are you doing?"

I barely heard him. Caught in a whirlwind, as if Russo had taken possession of my body. My movements grew faster, more urgent, my kiss too wild, too rough. I grabbed Carter, forced himagainst me, wanted more, harder, deeper.

"Fiona... stop! What’s wrong with you?"

His voice was loud now, desperate, disbelieving. And yet, I couldn’t stop. I needed this. The rush, the surrender to something that knew no scruples.

With a horrified look, he shoved me away and quickly retreated. "Whatever that was… it wasn’t you. Not us."

His words hit me like a blow. Not us.

That was exactly the problem. It had never been enough, and in that moment, I was sure it never would be again.

"Carter... I'm sorry." Did I really have to apologize for who I was and what I needed? "It’s been a long day," I said, feeling a hollow longing spread inside me. "I’m just tired."

He turned to me, still wearing that understanding smile that stabbed like a knife to my chest. "Don’t worry," he said softly. "We have plenty of time. A whole week, just the two of us."

I felt the urge to slap that gentleness off his face. To provoke him until he finally gave me what my damned body craved. Instead, I nodded silently, unable to look into his happy eyes any longer, turned onto my side, and closed my eyes. I felt his closeness, his warmth, but everything in me screamed for distance, for a place where I could ignore the contradictions tearing me apart inside. My body was here with Carter, but my mind, my soul—everything in me was split between the man holding me now and the one who had destroyed me. And, at the same time, made me stronger than I’d ever been.

The thought of Russo forced its way into my head uninvited. What it would be like if he were lying here with me now. How different everything would feel—more intense, rougher, untamed. His grip, his closeness, his breath on my skin. It was a desire that burned like fire through my veins, made it impossible to truly feel Carter.

But with the desire came the pain, just as fierce and merciless.The memory of the coldness in his eyes, the emptiness he’d left behind when he’d so easily erased me from his life. The scars he’d carved into me seemed to split open again in that moment, like a deep cut that had never fully healed.

I swallowed hard, tried to smother the heat, the longing, the craving for him. But it was there, unstoppable, even in the dark. A desperate need for what he’d given me—and at the same time, a quiet, gnawing hatred for myself because I still wanted him, even after he’d hurt me so deeply. My heart raced, and I bit my lower lip to keep from crying out. It was like drowning in myself, torn between the pain he’d inflicted and the urge to flee back into his arms. I wanted to forget him, to erase him from me. And yet, he was everywhere. In my thoughts, in my heart, beneath my skin.

I hadn’t said anything to Carter that wasn’t true. Hadn’t done anything I hadn’t deeply wanted. My body had spoken—loud, demanding, honest—and Carter hadn’t understood. Maybe he hadn’t even wanted to. And now I lay here, under this clean, sterile hotel blanket, feeling like a ruined person. I’d only shown him what I craved. What truly moved me. Not romanticized closeness, not tender restraint where you lose yourself because you’re afraid of being too much. But what burned inside me, what I could no longer suppress. I’d shown myself to him, naked and unfiltered—and it had overwhelmed him.

Now I felt like I’d broken something beyond repair. Not him. Not us. But me. As if what I carried inside was something dark, something you weren’t allowed to show if you wanted to be loved. I’d tried to be honest—with myself, with him—and for that, I now lay here with a lump of guilt and shame in my throat.

I’d lost it—control over myself, over what I wanted and what I needed. Everything was chaos, longing and pain, and I didn’t know how I’d ever free myself from it.

Twentytwo

Fiona Robertson

After we had left breakfast behind and the morning air in Rome grew gradually warmer, Carter and I made our way to the reception, where our driver was already waiting for us. The plan was to spend the day in Florence, wandering through the winding alleys and letting ourselves be awed by the Renaissance architecture.

Carter was thrilled, especially by the prospect of seeing the Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral and immersing himself in the city’s art and culture. He had been raving for days about how romantic it would be to drive through Tuscany, with all its gentle hills, olive groves, and vineyards. The idea would have excited me under normal circumstances, but today, something heavy weighed on me. Florence—his city. The thought made my heart skip a beat. It was as if I were stepping directly into his territory, into a world inevitably tied to him. Every part of me rebelled, yet I forced myself to maintain the façade.

We climbed into the sleek black luxury car that would accompany us for the day. The driver was polite, opening the door for me and welcoming us before securing the luggage in the trunk.

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