Page 20 of Lord of the Dark

His voice was quiet, soft, almost as if afraid to startle me further. "If you ever need to talk... I'm here."

He said it so kindly. So earnestly. Probably just being nice. Yet my stomach twisted. Tom was... Tom. A coworker, maybe even a friend. But this touch felt misplaced. I exhaled shallowly, lifting my head slowly to meet his eyes, and extracted my hand in what felt like slow motion.

"Did you guys get these too?!" Rachel burst in, waving two sleek black cards in the air, her grin bright enough to eclipse the tension.

Her interruption was a godsend. Oblivious to the emotional whirlwind she’d just disrupted, her energy dissolved the heaviness in the room. My shoulders loosened; a near-silent sigh of relief escaped me. In that moment, I could’ve kissed her for her cheerful obliviousness.

I arched a brow at the cards. "What are those?"

"Don’t tell me you haven’t gotten yours yet?" She perched on Tom’s desk, eyes darting between us.

Tom merely lifted a brow, leaning back with visible ease. "What exactly are we talking about?"

I reached out, and Rachel let the card slip into my fingers. The thick, embossed stock felt expensive. My eyes skimmed the ornate script—then my throat tightened.

Christian Delany.

My gut screamed bad idea. I’d heard about his parties—the rumors that clung to them. Delany wasn’t just known for his real estate empire, but for how he celebrated. His events were... particular. I looked up at Rachel.

"So? Did you get invites too?" she pressed.

Tom shrugged. "Mine was on my desk this morning. Barely glanced at it."

Rachel tsked. "Barely glanced? Do you two even know how exclusive these are?" She flopped back, eyes alight. "Come on. This isn’t just a party. It’s the party."

I slid the card back toward her. "Wasn’t planning on going."

Rachel’s brow furrowed as she snatched it back. "Why not?"

I leaned back, twirling a pen between my fingers. "Because I’ve heard things. And they’re... let’s say unique. Like Delany himself. When is it?"

Tom chuckled low as Rachel failed to stifle a grin. "Thursday night. Rumors are just rumors, Fi. People love to exaggerate. We’ll have fun—trust me."

"Fine," I finally said, setting the pen down. My eyes met Rachel’s. "Maybe a distraction’s exactly what I need."

Delany was well-connected in real estate—and somewhere deep, a reckless little voice whispered: Maybe you’ll see the god of darkness again. And maybe... this time, I wouldn’t let him walk away.

Rachel clapped. "That’s the spirit! So, what do you say? We go together?"

I nodded slowly. "What time?"

"Starts at nine. Let’s meet there."

Tom watched us, amused. "Alright, alright. I’m in. Playing chaperone." We laughed before he added, "But if this turns into one of those nights we regret by morning..."

Rachel winked. "Oh, it will. That’s why it’ll be unforgettable."

Eight

Fiona Robertson

Carter was at the office—he'd called earlier saying he had to pull overtime for an important client. So the evening was mine.

I stood before my bedroom mirror, lipstick in hand, letting my gaze trace my reflection. The black dress I'd chosen clung to my body—elegant but not overtly daring. The neckline was modest, revealing just enough to intrigue without giving too much away. It ended just above my knees, leaving enough skin bare to keep my movements fluid. The matching black stilettos elongated my legs and lent me a poised grace.

My fingers skimmed the dress's fine fabric, feeling the taut muscle beneath. My body was honed, shaped by years of disciplined training. I'd studied various martial arts and self-defense over the years. From earliest childhood, I'd learned—painfully—that a woman was only truly safe if she could defend herself by any means necessary.

My father had taught me that lesson in the cruelest way possible. His fists, his thunderous voice—the fractures of my childhood had hardened into scars, into indelible memories. He'd anchored hate and an unfathomable darkness deep within me, seared into my soul, buried under layers of control and a painstakingly constructed facade. Lately, though, I'd felt that volatile mix pressing upward more often. Like a long-dormant volcano building inexorable pressure. This growing inner tremor, this raw, boundless dark, slowly carving its way to the surface—it was throwing me off balance.

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