Page 30 of Take Me Darkly

I wasn’t just a survivor anymore. I was ready for the fight.

Chapter Ten

Serena

* * *

Morning arrived with a harsh, slate-gray light characteristic of the Manhattan skyline. Unlike the warm, unfiltered sunshine of Lucca that I had grown to love, there was no comfort in the daybreak here. The dreariness seeped through the stained-glass arches of the old church attic, scattering muted, distorted hues across the dark floorboards.

I shivered.

Rolling over, I reached out instinctively, but my hand met only cool, tangled sheets. Anton was gone.

Every muscle in my body thrummed with a deep, heavy ache, but it had nothing to do with the bullet wound in my shoulder. This ache was exquisite—a visceral souvenir left by the man who had possessed me hours ago.

The physical pain in my shoulder had dulled to something easily ignored, a sign that the worst of my physical recovery was behind me. What proved far harder to quiet was the sudden, suffocating knot tightening in my chest.

Last night hadn’t been about comfort, nor had it been about healing. It had been pure, unadulterated oblivion bought at the price of complete surrender. I had begged Anton to make me forget, and he had delivered with a dark, terrifying intensity. He had branded me, claiming my body and mind in the most primal, devastating way imaginable.

And in return, I had felt a worrying shift in my heart.

I wasn’t just falling for Anton Romano. I was irrevocably, hopelessly in love with him—and the realization terrified me.

I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress, resting my feet on the cool floor. I needed air. More than that, I desperately needed to dismantle these dangerous emotions using cold, undeniable logic.

First and foremost, I did not have the luxury of falling in love—if that was, in fact, what this was. If I analyzed the situation rationally, my initial instincts were almost certainly correct. In moments of extreme physical peril, the human brain floods the system with adrenaline, cortisol, and norepinephrine. Every sense heightens, and every emotional response amplifies. When the nervous system shifts abruptly from fight-or-flight to sudden safety, it creates a powerful psychological illusion—a misattribution of arousal.

In my case, Anton had quite literally saved me from danger. Naturally, my brain had cataloged him as my ultimate source of survival. It was basic neuroscience. Real love required time, stability, and trust. It didn’t crystallize overnight in the wake of trauma.

Nodding to the empty room, I stood up feeling satisfied about my conclusion.

Once the danger fades, this emotional illusion will fade with it.

I refused to be fragile. I refused to let irrational feelings compromise my focus. My parents were dead, my family’s past was a minefield, and I was only breathing because Anton had intervened. It didn’t matter if my heart wanted to grieve or if I felt a primal, almost spiritual pull toward the man who commanded this fortress. The only path forward was survival—finding the monsters who had murdered my parents so I could reclaim my life.

To do that, I needed intel.

I dressed deliberately in fitted black pants and a soft gray cashmere top that draped loosely over my injured shoulder. The amethyst panic pendant felt cool and heavy against my sternum. I touched the stone briefly before stepping into the kitchen, entirely ignoring the untouched breakfast tray Anton had left on the island.

Instead, I went straight to the heavy oak door leading to the lift. I wasn’t sure where Anton was. Perhaps he went back to the penthouse, or maybe he had a meeting with Zeke. I only knew he wasn’t here, giving me a rare window of opportunity.

The wrought-iron lift cage shuddered as it descended toward the lower levels. The significance of taking this trip alone wasn’t lost on me. Anton had hovered over me constantly since we arrived in New York. While I understood his protective instincts, his constant presence felt suffocating. I had governed my own life for years. I wasn’t built to be kept in a cage, no matter how gilded.

The main floor was quiet in the morning hours. After taking a few wrong turns through the arched corridors, I finally located the administrative suite.

When Anton had walked me through earlier, I hadn’t looked past the front desk. Up close, the suite felt remarkably like a high-end financial firm—sleek, sterile, and hyper-efficient—rather than the command center for an exclusive underground club.

Behind the dark marble counter sat two executive workstations. The desk on the left bore a brushed-metal nameplate: Zeke Kristof, Chief Security Officer. It was vacant, but the workstation beside it was occupied.

Myla sat behind a multi-monitor display, her platinum hair pulled back into a flawless, severe ponytail. Her fingers flew across her keyboard with practiced efficiency, her expression entirely focused on the data before her.

“Serena” Myla said. Her voice was low and smoky, carrying the faint rasp of old habits or too many late nights. “Mr. Romano isn’t here.”

“I know,” I said walking closer to her desk. I didn’t sit. For some reason, staying on my feet felt like maintaining an advantage. “I actually wanted to talk to you.”

Myla paused, her hands hovering above the keys as she turned her head. Her dark eyes assessed me with sharp, guarded intensity. In Anton’s world, loyalty was currency, and Myla’s ran deep.

“About what?” she asked neutrally.