Page 8 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

Fiona Robertson

That morning I had risen early, before the sun climbed above the horizon of Miami Beach.

It had become one of my routines, to clear my head—jogging along the promenade.

The sand beneath my running shoes, the rush of the waves, and the cool breeze gave me the feeling that here, at least, I had control.

It was the one moment of the day when no one wanted anything from me, no deadlines, no phone calls, no unspoken tensions.

Just me, my body, and the steady rhythm of my steps on the boardwalk.

The streets were still empty, with only a few other joggers out as well.

The sky was tinted a delicate orange as the sun slowly climbed over the Atlantic, the light reflecting off the shimmering waves.

I loved this silence, the feeling of moving forward at my own pace.

Running gave me the illusion that I could at least control my body, while the rest of my life seemed to spiral further out of control.

My steps were even, rhythmic, and with every breath, I tried to sort through the thoughts swirling in my head.

I thought about Carter—about the conversation about our shared future that still wouldn’t let me go.

His words had echoed in my mind, as if he had already mapped out our lives down to the smallest detail.

Moving in together, marriage, buying a house, children—it seemed like he had it all planned, as if he were following a carefully scripted narrative written for the two of us.

But the more I thought about it, the tighter my throat constricted.

The idea of a shared life with Carter suddenly felt like an invisible chain around my neck.

It was the logical next step, I knew that.

I loved Carter—he was charming, caring, dependable, the man who had stood by me through the highs and lows of my life.

So why did it feel so suffocating now? As if this step into a shared future was pushing me in a direction I didn’t truly want?

My chest tightened at the thought of how final all these decisions—marriage, a life together—seemed.

It was as if there would be no more room for myself, as if none of my choices would belong solely to me anymore.

My pulse quickened, not just from exertion.

A faint tingling, a sensation of being watched, prickled across my skin.

I glanced quickly over my shoulder and saw only the empty boardwalk behind me, but the feeling lingered.

I tried to shake it off, blaming exhaustion and the emotional strain of the past few days.

But then, abruptly, I heard the muffled sound of running shoes on sand, growing faster, closer.

My heartbeat accelerated—not just from jogging, but because every nerve in my body tensed.

I looked back again and this time saw a figure in a black tracksuit, hood pulled low over their face, rapidly closing in on me.

When I picked up my pace, so did my pursuer. It was as if their steps grew louder, more deliberate, with each of my quickened breaths. An uneasy fear crawled up inside me, and the cool breeze that had earlier soothed my skin now seemed to freeze every nerve ending. In a moment of panic, I veered sharply off the main promenade and into one of the many narrow side alleys leading toward downtown.

As I sprinted frantically down the narrow alley, I realized my pursuer wasn’t just chasing me—he was toying with me.

For a moment, it seemed I had gained some distance.

I risked another glance over my shoulder and saw him slow down, almost as if granting me a reprieve.

His movements, which had been fluid and menacing just moments before, now appeared relaxed.

He jogged with his head slightly lowered, arms swinging loosely, as if this were just another morning run.

But the flicker of relief was short-lived.

No sooner had I begun to catch my breath and find my rhythm than he abruptly changed tactics.

With terrifying acceleration, he closed the gap between us with an ease that turned my blood to ice.

It was as if he’d been waiting for me to show a moment of weakness.

His footsteps grew louder now, deliberate, each one echoing ominously through the quiet alley. He let me feel how close he was, only to fall back slightly again—observing, studying my reactions to this cruel game of cat and mouse. The fear that had been a whisper at the nape of my neck now screamed inside my skull. It was as if he were hunting me like a lion, not just to catch his prey, but to break it first. Adrenaline surged wildly through my veins, my breathing turned ragged, and sweat trickled down my forehead, mingling with the cool morning air into a clammy film on my skin. The uncertainty of when he would decide to strike in full nearly drove me mad with terror.

When he accelerated again, it was so sudden I almost stumbled.

He was so close now I could almost feel his breath on my neck.

The intensity of his presence, the speed with which he erased the distance between us, left no doubt—this wasn’t just a game.

It was a display of dominance, of my helplessness.

He chased me, controlled every movement, and clearly relished the power he held over me.

Then—a strong hand seized my shoulder in an iron grip.

Before I could gasp, it yanked me backward, forcing me to an abrupt halt.

Another hand clamped firmly over my mouth before I could make a sound.

My heart pounded in a frenzied, uncontrollable rhythm as my body locked in shock.

A crushing force pinned me against the cold, rough wall. The brickwork dug into my skin, the unyielding stone as merciless as the grip that held me captive. His breath grazed my ear.

“You should be more careful… danger lurks everywhere, Fiona.”

The deep, dark voice sent terror through me, seizing my lungs.

Fuck.

It was Russo.

My first impulse was to fight back.

He held me as if he could shatter me at any moment—and yet he didn’t.

Something in me rebelled against the power he wielded so effortlessly, while another part surrendered to it with terrifying willingness.

He pressed me harder against the wall, his body cutting off every escape route, as if to prove how pointless it was to even consider fleeing.

“What the hell—” I gasped out.

His fingers loosened from my mouth only slowly.

“So reckless,” he murmured, like he was speaking to a foolish child.

“Running alone through dark alleys—as if you were begging to be caught.”

“Who expects a damn stalker?” I hissed furiously before threatening, “I could report you—”

“Really? Tell me, what exactly will you say? That I saved you from your own stupidity?”

“So you’re my savior now? Then why does it feel so wrong?” A strange, irrational admiration for his roughness flickered in me.

I didn’t want to admit it, but he was getting under my skin.

And I wanted more.

“What’s your move now, Russo? Gonna assault me in the dark?”

“Would you like that?” He pressed closer until his heat flooded my veins like an unbearable temptation.

My pulse raced as his breath skimmed my cheek.

“Why don’t you just say what you really want?” His voice was a dagger dipped in honeyed words.

“Let me go,” I managed only a pathetic, hoarse whisper.

“Say it like you mean it.”

I jerked toward him abruptly.

My gaze locked onto his sharp-cut features—an unsettling, ominous beauty.

The kind meant not to comfort, but to ruin.

The rising sun cast jagged shadows across his face, sharpening the harsh angles of his cheekbones.

The hood of his black sweatshirt hid his hair, drawing focus to his dark, fathomless eyes. His lips were so damn tempting. A promise of sin and seduction. I wanted him to kiss me. Wanted it so badly I was on the verge of lunging at him to take what my body ached for. But it was a lie. Like a flower laced with poison—so enchanting you’d reach for it, only to choke on it the next second.

Yet my thoughts were powerless against the throbbing hunger inside me.

Unconsciously, my lips parted—just a fraction, barely noticeable.

But it was enough for him.

The corner of his mouth twitched in mocking amusement.

My desire was nothing but entertainment to him.

Rage flared in me, hot and sharp, but as I tried to turn away, his fingers gripped my chin.

He made sure I felt that he knew.

That he saw right through me.

That he decided when I got what I craved.

And when I didn’t. Fingertips traced slow, burning patterns along my waist, branding my skin beneath. I opened my mouth to retort—but he didn’t allow it.

“Shhh…” The dark sound was quiet, barely there.

Yet a deliberate command.

So absolute that I obeyed like I was in a trance.

A silent testament to his dominance—and my surrender.

"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 your little 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, every boundary 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, but every 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.

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."