Page 19 of Lord of the Dark

"I'm not interested in your mask. I want what's beneath it. And I'll break you until you give it to me." His thumb traced my lips as if branding that promise onto them.

My eyes narrowed, fury and fear burning equally in my chest. But I’d rather die than give in to him—not without a fight, at least. I let out a quiet scoff and straightened, locking onto his gaze. "You talk like you already know how this ends." I leaned in slightly, feeling the anger prickle under my skin—but also that dangerous curiosity I couldn’t shake. "But I’m not one of yourlittle conquests, Russo. I’m not some toy that falls in line at your dark voice and a few well-placed threats." I let my gaze drag over his face with the same slow control he used on me, then leaned even closer. "You might think you hold the strings. That you decide when and how I fall. But I don’t fall. If you want to challenge me, go ahead. But don’t you dare underestimate me."

He took his time, savoring the moment before his lips curled into a smug smile. "What you just gave me wasn’t defiance. It was an invitation."

The words sent an illicit heat crawling over my skin. I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry as sand.

"Do you know what I see when you defy me?" He let the question hang, wanting me to feel its weight. "The part of you begging to be mine." His irises were as dark as a moonless night. "I don’t deal in compliments. Don’t expect consent. I take what I want. And you—" He gestured vaguely at me, as if outlining my silhouette. "—have no idea what that means." A brief smirk flickered across his lips. "Your pride, your resistance—that’s the beginning. Not the obstacle." He stepped closer. "I won’t explain. Won’t justify. And I sure as hell won’t ask if you’re ready. I’ll drag you into parts of yourself you’ve kept locked away. And you’ll learn that screaming isn’t the only way to break."

He studied me for another moment, memorizing how I looked now—before I knew how deep the fall could go. Then he sealed the moment by slipping an invisible leash around my neck.

"So keep fighting, Fiona. I enjoy a rough warm-up," he murmured against my ear, his lips so close I thought they’d graze me.

His words should have repelled me. Should have disgusted me, or at least made me recoil. But the only thing they ignited was a raw, primal hunger for him—shameless, unexplainable. Because I knew now what he was. I felt it in every syllable, everyboundary crossed. And that was exactly why he pulled me in with a force I couldn’t comprehend. He wasn’t just rattling my walls—he wanted to tear them down with brutal hands.

Without another word, he released me—as if he'd lost interest in his new plaything for the moment. His gaze lingered on me a second longer—mocking, calculating, as if wondering how long it would take for me to stop resisting. Then he stepped back and moved away.

The cold he left behind was worse than any touch. Not a single muscle in my body twitched, even as he vanished into the shadows, silent as if he'd never been there at all.

But he had been there.

And I wasn’t the same as before.

I still stood pinned against the wall, my breath shallow and erratic, as if he’d choked me without ever laying a hand on me. My body trembled—not just from fear. Not just from the creeping dawn that slithered into the alley and prickled my skin. It was the knowledge that I’d lost. Minutes ago, I’d thought I could see through him, maybe even keep him at arm’s length. I’d deluded myself into believing I had some semblance of control. But now? Now I knew I’d been nothing but a fucking joke to him.

He’d let me feel strong in that meeting—only to show me here how meaningless it was. That everything I thought, from this moment on, was utterly insignificant. His laughter echoed in my skull—just a subtle imprint, an undercurrent of threat burned deep into my mind, exactly as he’d intended.

Fuck.

The day stretched endlessly—not because it was busy, but because it felt like a prison. My thoughts gave me no peace. Or rather—he gave me no peace. No matter how hard I tried to focus on my work, he was there. In every pause. In every distant stare. In every unconscious breath that felt different because he lurked in my mind. I tried to push it away, butevery time I remembered how he’d held me, how his energy, his heat had seeped into me, lightning struck through my body. An uncontrollable wave that froze me in place, dragging me right back where I didn’t want to be.

I shoved my office chair back and stood, as if movement could shake the leaden weight in my chest. I walked down the hall, eyes fixed on the office door ahead, but my head was elsewhere. With him. No matter how hard I fought it—he wouldn’t let go. Every time I thought I could refocus, the memory returned. His breath on my skin. His voice, so deep and possessive, it had branded itself into my consciousness.

'Enough,' I snapped at myself internally. Squaring my shoulders, I knocked and stepped into Tom’s office to discuss details about planned renovations for Thompson’s property in Dade County.

Tom sat behind his desk, jacket slung over the chair, tie loosened. Blueprints glowed across his screen.

"Hey." I dropped into the chair opposite him, fighting the restlessness inside. "I wanted to go over a few details on the changes. The kitchen—you're overseeing the execution?"

Tom nodded. "Yeah. Thompson was hyper-specific. New marble countertops, custom cabinetry, hidden LED strips—guy’s got expensive taste. I reviewed it this morning; work’s on schedule. But the flooring in the main room..."

I listened. Or at least, I tried. But my thoughts kept slipping, yanking me back to a cold alley wall. To the way Russo had looked at me. To the way he’d shown me control was an illusion. At least, for me.

"Fiona?"

"Tom?" I blinked, refocusing on him. "I heard you. The flooring in the main room—what's the issue?"

Tom didn’t answer immediately. His gaze was assessing. Too long. Too sharp. As if he could sense something was off.

I forced a neutral smile, but my thoughts were already elsewhere—stuck in that dark alley, on the ice in Russo’s voice, on the prickling at my nape I couldn’t shake.

"Fiona?" Tom asked, his tone softer now, almost concerned, as he leaned forward slightly. His expression relaxed a fraction, but his eyes still held something watchful.

I was about to form a reply—some deflection—when I suddenly registered movement.

His hand. His fingers slid across the desk, gentle, warm, but deliberate, until they came to rest over mine.

My breath hitched. It wasn’t a rushed or invasive gesture. But it felt far too familiar for a colleague. My gaze dropped automatically to his hand, to the way his thumb brushed lightly over my skin, as if to soothe. I should’ve pulled away. Instead, I waited—curious what he was playing at.

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