Page 9 of Lord of the Dark (Drawn into Darkness #1)

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.

And not least of all, it was this untamed energy that fed my mounting dissatisfaction with Carter.

With him, I had to leash it, lock it away, deny myself—because he could never handle it.

Because no one in my world could.

They only knew the polished version of Fiona Robertson.

The one who functioned. The woman at Carter's side: refined, clever, successful—but never too much, never unpredictable. Something festered inside me, something that couldn't be suppressed much longer. And with each day, it grew harder to maintain the stifling facade.

I stepped back and slid open the top drawer of my dresser.

Folded carefully on a silk cloth lay a slim black nylon sheath, waiting.

I reached for it, unfolded it with care, and let my fingers glide over the sharp black blade nested within—my Gerber Ghoststrike.

I didn't carry it daily, but when I was alone, it lent me a sense of security.

With practiced motions, I secured the holster to my right thigh, ensuring it sat snug without pinching or slipping, adjusting the angle of the grip for optimal access. Carter knew I owned it. But not that I carried it. And certainly not how steady my hand was with it.

I met my own gaze in the mirror and smiled—sweet with anticipation.

The night was a single, shimmering promise, heavy with heat and anticipation, as we entered Christian Delany’s estate.

Right at the entrance, where broad, gold-framed fire bowls flanked the stone steps, it was clear: this was no ordinary party.

This was a production—an intoxication of light, music, and excess.

I straightened my shoulders, felt the silken dress against my body and the gentle pressure of the knife secured in my thigh holster.

A cool breath of night air grazed my skin as I let my gaze glide over the dark walls of the estate.

The tall, ivy-covered stone walls shielded prying eyes, as if this were a secret temple for those who knew no rules—or needed none.

Before we even reached the final steps, my phone vibrated.

I pulled it from my clutch.

A new message.

Sender: Unknown.

"Let me guess—you picked the dress for me."

My heart skipped a beat.

The words glared sharply against the black of the screen, but it wasn’t the text that made me pause—it was the feeling it ignited in me.

Seen.

Before I had even properly arrived.

I lifted my head, let my gaze slowly slide over the fa?ade, over windows, balconies, shadows—searching.

He was here.

Somewhere.

Maybe above me.

Maybe right in front of me. Maybe closer than I wanted.

A second vibration.

"You won’t find me.

I’ll find you—when I want to."

My thumb hovered over the screen, but I didn’t respond.

What could I have even said? That he took my breath away without me even seeing him? That two lines alone were enough to make my knees weak and my mind useless? My heart was beating too fast, my breath too shallow.

I slid the phone back into my clutch as if I could regain control over my insides that way.

A waiter handed me a glass of champagne, which I nearly took without looking.

The cool stem in my hand was the only thing keeping me from completely losing my composure at that moment.

"Wow," Rachel murmured beside me, pausing for a moment.

Her green eyes widened as she took in the scene before us.

I followed her gaze.

The heart of the estate was the sprawling pool area, which nestled into the architecture like a dark, liquid surface.

Above it floated a glass platform—a dance floor of pure light that flickered with every step of the guests dancing beneath it.

Four enormous cages stood along the pool, each illuminated by flames, as if they were altars for the gods of the night.

Inside them, bodies moved—fluid, almost predatory.

The dancers, clad in tight leather outfits, swung around the poles, letting their muscles flash under the flickering play of light.

Their dance wasn’t just expression—it was pure seduction.

A display of power and surrender, of lust and dominance, so blatant that I instinctively held my breath. Goosebumps raced down my spine. Not from the heat of the flames or the bass vibrating through the ground—but because of him. Because of the message still burning behind my eyelids.

Tom cleared his throat.

"Is that...?"

Rachel laughed softly.

"Definitely not on the invitation.

Think we’ve stepped into a movie?"

Their voices pulled me back, but I couldn’t answer.

My gaze was trapped in the scene, my heart clenched tight by a phantom that felt closer to me than any real person in that moment.

"I thought I was going to a vaguely professional party," Tom muttered skeptically.

"Not the goddamn garden of lust."

I felt the floor vibrate beneath my heels, the air crackling as if electrified.

Everything was sensual.

Excessive.

A game where innocence had no place.

I took a sip of the cool, sparkling champagne. And as the bubbles burst on my tongue, I made a decision: whatever this night would bring—I wanted to feel it. Not overthink it. Not question it. Just live it. Everything that had held me back—Carter, doubt, control—slipped away like a dress that had grown too tight.

Grinning, I grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and held it out to Tom.

"Oh, Tom, don’t be so uptight.

What’s wrong with a little entertainment?"

He shook his head, took a deep swig, and eyed the dancers with a mix of fascination and unease.

Then came—no, appeared—the host.

Christian Delany.

He materialized suddenly among the crowd, as if he'd noticed us long ago and had now decided to grace us with his presence.

Tall, lean, with a toothpaste-commercial smile that was as captivating as it was calculated.

His light linen suit fit impeccably, yet made him look like a nouveau-riche snob.

Delany seemed determined to embody every cliché.

The leather of his shoes had once belonged to a crocodile that now—instead of gliding through the Everglades—slid across the party floor on his bare feet.

"My dearest guests," he said in a tone dripping with feigned warmth, arms spread wide.

"I'm delighted you found your way here."

Rachel stepped forward, mirroring his smile.

"Delany, you certainly know how to put on a show."

He grinned, took her hand, and brushed a kiss against her knuckles—a gesture from another era that felt almost surreal in this setting.

Then his ice-blue eyes slid to me. "Fiona."

I met his gaze evenly, betraying nothing, though the atmosphere was sinking under my skin.

There was something in the air here—more than alcohol and heat.

A subterranean, dark tension lurking in every corner of the estate.

"I was almost worried you'd decided against coming tonight."

"You don't know me well, Delany," I replied with an ambiguous smile.

"I rarely miss parties of such... quality."

"I should hope not." His gaze lingered a beat too long.

"We'll see each other again," he added before turning away, leaving us with a loaded grin.

Around us, life whirled—glowing cocktails, glittering dresses, bare skin dancing in the light.

The bass thrummed through the air, vibrating in my bones.

I let myself drift into the crowd, my hips adjusting to the rhythm as my fingers traced the cool surface of my glass.

Rachel was already lost in a dance with a stranger, her movements fluid, almost hypnotic.

Tom stood apart, smirking at the spectacle—an observer in a world not quite his own.

For a moment, I closed my eyes, surrendering to the electric pulse of the night.

The bass pulsed in my marrow; the heat of dancing bodies mingled with the heavy sweetness of expensive perfume and liquor.

It could have been a moment of pure abandon—

Then I felt it.

A prickle.

It started deep in my nape, a pull spreading down my spine.

My body knew before my mind could place it.

An icy whisper threading through the thick, warm night.

The air shifted.

Just moments ago, it had been heavy with music and carefree laughter—now it was charged with something invisible but undeniable. Anticipation coiled tight in my gut.

I was being watched.

Every muscle tensed, as if my skin had sensed him before my mind could locate him.

Slowly, I opened my eyes, letting my gaze skim over the crowd—past glowing glasses, unfamiliar faces, bodies jerking in the strobe lights.

Everything was in motion—but I was searching for the stillness between.

The shadow that wasn’t dancing.

The gaze that wasn’t searching, because it had already found.

He was here.

I’d known it all along.

But now—he was getting closer.

I felt it in the goosebumps prickling my arms, in the electric heat draping over my nape like a smothering veil.

He had to be watching me—somewhere between the glittering lights and the noise.

Yet I couldn’t see him.

My grip on the glass tightened slightly more than necessary.

I took a sip, the cool liquid burning momentarily on my tongue before searing down my throat.

I relaxed my shoulders, let my head tilt faintly to the side as if surrendering to the rhythm.

But my gaze kept searching.

The neon beams flickered, as if an invisible current had surged through the wires.

Then—abrupt darkness.

A collective murmur rippled through the crowd, followed by scattered shouts of surprise.

The first laugh rang out—half-mocking, half-amused.

"Party over already?"

"Shit, my drink!" A hissed curse, then the bright shatter of glass on tile.

But it was all background noise.

Because suddenly, I saw him.

A shadow.

A silhouette that didn’t move. He wasn’t part of the scenery—he was the contrast. The stillness in the heart of excess. My gaze barely grazed him, yet it was enough to fracture something deep inside me.

Russo stood there as if he’d done nothing but watch me all along.

And I felt it.

That silent claim.

That unshakable certainty in his stance—that I was no longer free.

A figure apart from the gyrating, laughing crowd. The darkness swallowed everything—except him.

My pulse roared.

He waited, letting me feel his presence like a predator who knew his prey was aware of the threat.

A familiar tingle crawled down my spine, as if someone had dragged a match over my skin.

But if he thought I’d stand there, docile, waiting for him to make his move—he was dead wrong.

A rebellious impulse surged in me. The urge to provoke him, to force him out of hiding. If Russo wanted to watch, he’d see what happened when hesitation went too far.

My eyes scanned the crowd for an opening, a distraction—

Then the power returned, and with it, the light.

I spotted Delany.

Decisively, I strode toward him and seized his wrist.

His body stiffened briefly, startled by my sudden touch, but then he yielded, letting me pull him into the throng.

"Fiona," he purred as I led him through the dancers.

"I’d hoped you’d come to me eventually."

I turned, pressed my palms to his shoulders, let my hips sway with the music.

His fingers skimmed my waist—confident, a man who believed he held the reins.

But Delany was just a means to an end, a pawn in my game of provocation.

Every brush of his hands, every forced contact was calculated—a performance for the night’s true spectator: Russo.

My body tensed under Delany’s touch, not from desire, but from the cold awareness of being watched by my real adversary.

My gaze flickered past Delany’s shoulder, searching the crowd.

But Russo was nowhere.

Where was he?

Before I could process the unease coiling in my gut, a hand gripped my arm.

"There you are!" Rachel pushed through the crowd, grinning.

"I was at the bar getting you a drink, but you’re occupied—" She shot a pointed look at Delany, who smirked.

"Fiona’s a coveted dance partner," he remarked, fingers still possessive at my waist.

Rachel laughed—then her eyes darted over my shoulder, widening.

A soft "Ohhh!" escaped her before she jerked her chin toward the shadows.

"Wait… is that Russo?"

I followed her gaze—

And then it hit me like a physical blow.

My heart stuttered, then hammered twice as hard.

There, in a quieter area with high-top tables, stood him.

The focal point of every stolen glance.

Black as Nox, the embodiment of night itself.

As if he’d risen from the underworld for this evening alone.

Surrounded by people in creams, blues, soft pastels—he stood out like a shadow draped over light. His black shirt clung to the breadth of his chest, top buttons undone as if etiquette meant nothing. Rolled sleeves bared forearms corded with strength, hinting at something dormant beneath that deceptive calm.

He hadn’t seen me yet.

But I—I couldn’t look away.

Heat prickled through my nerves, pulsing low in my core, as if my body had already accepted what my mind still refused to acknowledge.

Then, almost imperceptibly, he lifted his head.

His stare pinned me in place.

I didn’t dare break it.

A moment stretched into eternity.

But he wasn’t alone.

A sharp pain lanced through me so violently I had to hold my breath.

A woman stood close beside him, her body nearly molded against his.

She laughed at something he said, her hand resting casually on his arm as if she had every right to be there.

"Damn, he is hot," Rachel remarked, nudging me playfully.

"Is he even allowed to be touched, or do you catch something?" She laughed, but I barely heard her.

My stomach twisted painfully.

Completely irrational, completely unfounded—and yet so intense it nearly made me dizzy. Jealousy.

It surged through me like wildfire, turning my blood to liquid fire, my pulse frantic.

I didn’t want to feel it.

It was absurd.

"Oh, looks like the right people found each other," Delany commented dryly, his gaze also fixed on Russo.

"That’s Valeria Santini, by the way.

She’s not exactly known for letting opportunities slip."

My stomach clenched tighter.

Valeria Santini.

The name meant nothing to me.

But the way she leaned into Russo, the way her fingers traced his arm with practiced ease—and most of all, the way he didn’t pull away—told me everything I needed to know.

The last shred of reason in me screamed to look away, to tell myself it didn’t matter, that I shouldn’t care.

But my body burned with possessiveness, refusing to obey.

My hands curled into fists without thought, my heart hammered so hard it hurt.

Valeria Santini.

I repeated the name in my mind like a curse, as if I could somehow decipher why the mere sound of it made my skin crawl. Maybe because she was the kind of woman who looked used to getting what she wanted. Maybe because she stood too close, already working to erase what little space remained between them.

"Don’t underestimate Santini.

She was involved with a Russian oligarch," Delany continued, still watching her.

"Then a few months ago, she suddenly came back to Miami alone."

I turned to him.

"And? Where is he now?"

Delany’s lips twitched.

"Good question.

There are rumors."

"Rumors?" Rachel arched a brow, intrigued.

"This and that.

Look at her—I’d bet money something’s happening there tonight," Delany mused, his tone dripping with amusement.

The urge to shut him up with my fist flared white-hot in my veins.

"Santini’s a ruthless seductress...

he won’t escape her tonight," he added, twisting the knife.

What was a seductress compared to a killer?

"Probably nothing serious, right?" Rachel leaned closer to me, her voice half-amused, half-curious.

"Of course not," I replied far too quickly and far too sharply. "Why?"

Amused, Rachel arched an eyebrow.

"Dunno.

Maybe because you're looking at her like you're about to rip her head off."

I forced a smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Bullshit." But that was exactly what I wanted to do.

I wanted to stride over there, tear that perfect, flawless Valeria away from his side.

Or just throw her straight into the goddamn ocean and let the crocodiles handle the rest.

My gaze flicked back to him, searching for a reaction.

Nothing.

No shift in his expression, no indication he'd even noticed me.

He seemed utterly unaffected, as if my presence here wasn't even a footnote in his evening.

I bit my lip as my thoughts raced.

It felt like someone had driven a white-hot thorn straight into my core.

My demons were definitely unleashed, because what I felt in that moment was so intense, so destructive, it nearly overwhelmed even me.

I finally gave in to the impulse, fixed a cool smile on my face, turned to Delany, and let my fingertips glide lightly over his forearm.

"Why don't you introduce us? I'd love to meet Valeria," I purred with feigned interest.

Rachel's eyes widened in alarm.

"Oh, is that really a good idea, Fiona?"

"It's the best one I've had in ages." I winked at her and linked arms with Christian, who smirked and pulled me closer, steering me through the crowd toward them.

I allowed his touches, every movement—but my focus was locked on one person only. Valeria.

Christian stepped forward with a broad smile.

"Alex, Valeria, I wanted to introduce someone." His hand settled possessively at my back—a gesture that suddenly seemed ridiculous.

"This is Fiona Robertson."

Valeria assessed me with a gaze that was cool and calculating.

Her smile was perfectly measured—polite enough for appearances, but beneath it lay something else.

Distrust.

And she had every reason for it.

Russo took his time.

His posture remained relaxed, his expression as indifferent as if he'd only just noticed me for the first time.

But when he extended his hand, his grip around my fingers was painfully tight.

He was playing along.

My heart beat faster, but I held his hand, returning his pressure.

This wasn't just a handshake.

It was a silent power struggle, an unspoken message playing out solely between us.

He knew I'd seen through his game.

And I now knew he'd seen through mine.

I arched a brow, letting my gaze travel slowly from our intertwined hands up to his eyes.

For a fraction of a second, I caught a dark glint—an acknowledgment that burned hot beneath my skin.

"Ms.

Robertson." His voice was calm, feigning a distance as if we were strangers.

"Mr.

Russo." I smiled just as coolly and withdrew my hand.

Valeria glanced between us, searching for something she couldn't grasp.

But she felt it, just like I did.

The atmosphere had shifted, charged with something invisible that shimmered even through our perfect fa?ades.

The tension in our little circle was like an invisible web, each of us entangled with our own motives.

I felt Russo's intense gaze on me—piercing, analyzing. A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed his admiration for my audacity, my ruthlessness in doing exactly what he usually did to others.

He held back, spoke little, only observed.

Valeria, laughing beside him, dragged her nails slowly down his arm—a gesture more possessive than affectionate.

My gaze traced the powerful line of his forearm, one I'd never touched so intimately.

Never felt what it would be like to let my fingertips glide over that hard, warm skin.

Instead, her nails scraped across it—foreign, unwelcome fingers right where they didn't belong. It only made it worse. This woman was a step ahead, claiming something I couldn't even admit I wanted. And him? He watched me openly. The sheer provocation of it. Like playing with a gasoline can near an open flame—and he seemed hell-bent on getting burned.

I ignored the sting in my gut, the urge to peel each one of those nails from his arm—slowly, agonizingly.

Instead, I slipped the leash around Valeria's neck with every smooth word, only to hand the leash to Delany in the end.

"Christian, you mentioned you were renovating parts of the house," I began with feigned interest.

"I heard you've made some truly impressive changes."

Christian's chest visibly puffed up.

"Oh yes, it's going to be phenomenal! We're preserving the architecture but integrating modern elements—new lighting, and the upper lounge now offers a panoramic ocean view."

Valeria didn't catch on immediately, seeming genuinely intrigued.

She might have known how to charm dangerous men, but against a scheming woman like me, she stood no chance.

"That sounds spectacular! Blending modern design into a historic villa can't be easy."

"Oh, it is spectacular." I flashed her a smile so charming it almost seemed real.

"Why don't you show Valeria the view now? It won't get any better than at night."

A shadow flickered across her face—now she understood.

Too late, sweetheart.

Her lips pressed together before softening back into a gentle smile.

"Oh, that's not necessary, I don't want to be any trouble," she said with a sweetness as calculated as my suggestion.

Her fingers now clutched Alex's forearm like her life depended on it. She wasn't about to surrender Russo without a fight.

But I wasn't just a sore loser—I also hated sharing.

Christian, oblivious to the duel, was already lightly taking Valeria's wrist.