Page 26 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Fiona Robertson

3 weeks later

The airport was a sea of movement and voices, a constant ebb and flow dissolving into a mix of urgency and chaos.

People rushed past me—some with determined strides, others with weary, dragging steps.

The muffled rumble of suitcases rolling across polished floors and the crackling loudspeaker announcements calling for boarding formed the backdrop.

But it all reached me as if through a veil, separating me from the outside world.

I stood beside Carter in the departure hall, my hand gripping the handle of my suitcase far too tightly to conceal the tension within me.

My gaze wandered aimlessly across the display boards flashing with departures.

Yet the words blurred before my eyes.

Everything felt so distant, even though Carter stood mere inches away, lost in thought as he double-checked our flight details.

"Everything alright?" he asked suddenly, without lifting his eyes from the papers.

His voice was calm, almost indifferent, and yet I felt a small sting at his question.

"Yes, of course," I replied mechanically, forcing a smile onto my lips that felt wrong.

"Just a little nervous about the flight."

He laughed softly, placing a hand on mine.

"It’s going to be amazing.

Florence, Fiona.

Can you believe it? A few days just for us."

Florence.

The mere thought of that city felt wrong, like a shard lodged in my consciousness.

Carter spoke of romance, of relaxation, of a vacation—yet I couldn’t shake the gnawing doubts.

Three weeks had passed since I last saw Russo—three weeks that had hung over me like a painful shadow.

I had suffered, more than ever before in my life.

The nights had been the worst.

Sleep was impossible in my bed, which still seemed to carry his scent no matter how many times I changed the sheets.

My apartment, once my safe harbor, had become a prison, saturated with his presence, his dominance lingering even in his absence.

Every room was steeped in memories of him—his touch, his scent, the way he dragged me into the depths while simultaneously destroying me. He had consumed me, devoured me, claimed every fiber of my being—only to leave me shattered and hollow in the end. It had felt as though he hadn’t just left me, but had taken a part of me with him—a part I desperately wanted back and yet cursed.

But time had forced me to function.

Carter had been pleased when I drew close to him again.

My body was betraying me.

No matter how hard I tried...

it wouldn’t give in to Carter anymore — even as my thoughts kept pulling me back to Russo. I had convinced myself that everything Russo had told me about Carter was lies, the words of a man who wanted to manipulate and destroy. And yet, in quiet moments like this, it was hard to separate those lies from the truth.

"Fiona?" Carter’s voice dragged me back to the present.

He frowned, concerned by my silence.

"Sorry," I murmured, forcing myself to look at him.

"I’m just tired."

He nodded, satisfied with my answer, and I watched as he organized his travel documents while I let my gaze wander.

The large glass facade offered a view of the runways, where planes took off and landed like steel birds.

It should have been soothing, but instead, a strange restlessness spread through me.

Then, suddenly, I felt it.

Not a conscious decision, but an instinctive knowing—a pull deep inside me.

My eyes locked onto a figure moving through the crowd.

Broad-shouldered, with a self-assured stride, dark hair swept back neatly.

My heart stopped before it began to race. Everything about that silhouette screamed Russo.

I froze, tried to look away, but couldn’t.

A tingling spread across my skin, so familiar and yet so unwanted.

My body reacted instantly, irrationally—like a traitor.

But my mind screamed against it.

"Everything okay?" Carter asked again, but I couldn’t speak.

My gaze darted back to the figure, now disappearing into the crowd.

My pulse hammered as I fought the rising panic.

It couldn’t be him.

It couldn’t.

I swallowed hard, gripped my suitcase.

Look away, Fiona.

Look away! But my body refused.

I stood paralyzed, torn between fleeing and the fear of actually facing him.

It was panic that overwhelmed me—not of him, but of myself.

Of my body’s reaction, starved of his nearness yet craving it.

I knew how deeply he had hurt me.

I knew I would never let him close again.

But would I be strong enough? Could I really resist if he stood before me?

"I… I need to use the restroom," I finally stammered, releasing my suitcase and stepping back hastily.

But it wasn’t a search for him—it was an escape.

A flight from the possibility that he could be here.

I moved quickly, the air around me stifling despite the vast, bright space.

I kept my eyes fixed forward, forcing myself not to look back, not to search for him.

I couldn’t see him.

Not now.

Never again.

Finally, I stopped in a quiet corner of the hall, away from the bustle.

I leaned against the cool wall, trying to steady my breathing.

But the heat inside me didn’t fade; the storm in my mind raged on.

I knew he couldn’t be here.

And yet, it felt like his presence still clung to me—a shadow that had never truly let go.

I wiped my brow, tried to ignore the trembling in my hands as I forced myself to return.

Carter waited with a worried expression, but I fixed my false smile in place as if nothing had happened.

"Everything alright?" he asked softly.

"Yes," I lied, grabbing my suitcase and following him—but the unease remained.

The thought of Alessandro remained.

And I knew, no matter how far I traveled, I wouldn’t escape him.

Not as long as I still carried him inside me.

"Fiona!" Carter’s voice snapped me out of my daze, and when I turned, I saw him approaching.

His concerned gaze was like a cold shock, dragging me back to reality.

"I thought you were going to the restroom?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Yes… I… I got turned around," I lied.

He only shook his head lightly, took my hand, and led me back toward the gate.

I let him, because in that moment, I didn’t know what else to do.

But as I walked, the restlessness still coiled inside me—the feeling that he had been here.

That he had never truly let me go.

Rome greeted us with the humid heat of an Italian summer.

Fiumicino Airport was overcrowded, a constant ebb and flow of travelers, voices in countless languages echoing through the air.

There were no direct flights to Florence, so Carter had planned a brief stop for sightseeing in Rome before we would finally travel to Florence—to that place which made every fiber of my being recoil.

Carter pulled our suitcase through the terminal while I trudged beside him, exhausted, my thoughts still dulled from the hours on the plane.

It felt surreal to be here now, in this city steeped in history and culture, while inside me, chaos still raged.

Carter seemed unfazed by the bustle around us.

He was in his element—cheerful, energetic, ready to savor every second of this vacation to the fullest.

"I can't wait to get started," he said, squeezing my hand gently.

"Rome, Fiona.

We're in Rome! Can you believe it?"

I gave a weak smile and nodded, but my excitement was muted.

Of course, I was looking forward to this trip, but my thoughts kept circling back to what—or rather, who—I had left behind.

Finally, we found our driver, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a charming smile, holding a small sign with Carter’s name.

"Benvenuti a Roma," he greeted us, taking our suitcase.

His English was fluent but laced with a melodic accent that captured the spirit of the city.

We followed him through the crowd to the parking lot, where a sleek black Mercedes waited.

I sank into the back seat, the cool air from the vents soothing my overheated skin.

Carter slid in beside me, buzzing with anticipation as the driver navigated Rome’s chaotic streets.

The city rushed past us, alive yet ancient—narrow alleys, Vespas darting past with impatient honks, towering ruins mingling with modern architecture, creating a scene as mesmerizing as it was overwhelming.

Carter was enthralled. He pressed against the window, pointing out every landmark—the Colosseum, Castel Sant’Angelo, St. Peter’s Basilica in the distance. For him, this was a dream come true.

But I couldn’t fully share his wonder.

The city was breathtaking, yes, yet I was worlds away from the lightness Carter felt.

I was a stranger in my own life, merely watching this trip unfold without truly being part of it.

Half an hour later, we reached our hotel—a grand building in the heart of Rome, just minutes from its most famous sights.

The doorman welcomed us with a warm smile and helped with our luggage.

The lobby was vast and opulent, marble floors, high ceilings, frescoes evoking the glory of ancient Rome.

We were led to our room, and as the door clicked shut behind us, I collapsed onto the plush bed.

The room was luxurious—elegant furniture, a spacious terrace overlooking the city, a bathroom like a spa. Carter set our suitcases aside and sat next to me.

"So, what do you think?" he asked, eyes bright.

"Isn’t this amazing?"

"Yes, it’s beautiful," I said, though my tone lacked the enthusiasm it should have carried.

Carter didn’t seem to notice.

He stood, drew back the curtains, and let the golden Roman afternoon flood the room.

"Look at this," he said, stepping onto the terrace.

"We have the perfect view of the city!"

I followed slowly, standing beside him as my gaze swept over the panorama.

In the distance, the dome of St.

Peter’s Basilica rose like the city’s beating heart, terracotta rooftops stretching to the horizon.

It was breathtaking.

"I’ll get us drinks," Carter said, heading back inside.

"We should toast—to us and this incredible trip!"

I nodded absently, lingering on the terrace.

The warm breeze tugged at my hair, and for a moment, I closed my eyes, trying to lose myself in the hum of the city.

Carter returned with two glasses of champagne, handing me one.

"To Rome," he said.

"To Rome," I echoed with a smile.

We clinked glasses, and I took a sip, the bubbles dancing on my tongue.

Carter was affectionate, attentive—the same man who had shown me such patience these past weeks.

We had rebuilt something between us, and for a moment, I wanted to believe everything was fine again.

But deep inside, the shadow remained.

A gnawing emptiness I couldn’t shake.

I wanted to love Carter the way he deserved, to give myself to him completely.

And yet, I still felt—sometimes—that something was missing.

Like a void I had to ignore with all my strength, just to preserve the fragile normalcy we had fought so hard to reclaim.

"Let's explore the city," Carter suggested, setting his glass down on the table.

"Rome is waiting for us."

I nodded and forced myself to rally.

Maybe I could distract myself.

Maybe I could leave this feeling of being torn behind if I just focused on the beauty of this city.

We set out to wander Rome’s narrow streets.

The sun had sunk lower now, casting the city in golden light.

The sounds of life were everywhere—street musicians playing, tourists laughing and snapping photos, locals lounging outside cafés, savoring the evening.

Carter held my hand, and I tried to match his steps, to share his excitement.

The evening passed in an endless stream of impressions—the Colosseum, the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain.

Carter was enthralled, unable to get enough of the city.

But Rome’s beauty couldn’t soothe the restlessness inside me.

When we finally returned to our hotel, I felt exhausted—not just physically, but emotionally.

The muted elegance of the room greeted us with the cool indifference of luxury hotels: neutral walls, softly padded silence, flawlessly folded pillows.

Carter lay beside me on the bed, his movements careful, his eyes searching, hopeful.

I knew this moment would come.

This trip wasn’t just a vacation—it was his attempt to save us. He still believed in us. And that hurt more than anything.

He moved closer, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

"Fiona, you’re so beautiful, you know that?" he whispered, his voice warm in a way that should have shaken me to my core.

I forced a smile, feeling the movement of my lips without knowing if it reached my heart.

With tender certainty, he turned me onto my back, his hands gliding over my sides as if to frame me, preserve me.

His lips grazed my forehead, my cheek—so gentle it almost hurt.

Every look from him was a plea.

For closeness.

For love. For me.

But inside me, there was only emptiness.

A deep, smothering fog pushing between us.

I felt his touch, but my body remained silent.

No echo, no tremor, no desire.

Just the cold realization that I no longer belonged to him. Maybe I never really had.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus on him—on his gentle hands, his familiarity.

On the man who had never hurt me.

But what I felt instead wasn’t his skin against mine.

It was a memory.

Of the man who had never spared me—and because of that, lived deeper inside me than anyone else.

I didn’t feel him as a thought.

But as a physical presence.

Suddenly, he was there.

His shadow, his scent, his voice—filling the room, demanding, inescapable.

I remembered his gaze, that dark fire in his eyes that asked no questions, only took.

And his hands—hard, deliberate, uncompromising—how they had held me, forced me, claimed me until I barely recognized myself.

He hadn’t treated me like something fragile. Not like a creature to be protected.

But like an equal opponent—someone who should withstand him.

And grow stronger for it.

His tongue at my throat, his teeth at my shoulder, the ragged sound of his breath when I screamed because he had pushed me past a limit I never would have dared cross.

He forced me to let go.

To lose myself.

And in that loss, I found something I had never felt with Carter: raw, untamed ecstasy.

I was the object of his lust.

I was part of his desire—his challenge, his addiction.

And the more I fought him, the harder he demanded.

Every grip, every thrust was a vow: You belong to me.

And in the depths of my pleasure, in the pain I had begun to crave, 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 him against 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.