Page 37 of Take Me Darkly

Disappointment had flickered through me. I’d been hoping for outside, fresh air, and for a glimpse of something beyond these walls. But I understood. Someone wanted me dead, and going out meant making myself an easy target.

“Okay,” I’d agreed, trying to keep the letdown from my voice.

Anton had cupped my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his onyx eyes. “I know it’s not the outside world. But I promise tonight will be worth staying in for.”

Then he’d left, and I’d been alone with the box.

I finally gathered the nerve to open it. The ribbon came loose easily. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, were several sets of lingerie that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.

Black lace. Teal silk. Deep purple satin.

They were breathtakingly elegant—far removed from the practical pieces an archaeologist wore on a dusty dig site. Lifting the black lace set, I realized the delicate panties were entirely crotchless. A flash of heat rushed straight to my face as I pictured Anton’s reactions. Anticipation, hot and electric, coiled low in my stomach.

I glanced at the clock. Three hours until eight. Plenty of time to transform myself from a traumatized survivor into the woman who belonged on Anton Romano’s arm.

In the master bathroom, Anton had stocked the shelves with staggering attention to detail—high-end shampoos and conditioners, lotions in scents I liked, and various shades of makeup. It was the kind of attention to detail that should have felt invasive but instead made me feel cherished and thought-of.

But as I wrapped a bath towel around myself, a practical dilemma surfaced.

Grooming.

I remembered the women at the club in Florence—flawless, glowing, and completely hairless. A quick mental review of Club O suggested the same aesthetic applied here. I usually kept things tidy with basic maintenance, but tonight was a date at an exclusive, decadent club. Anton’s club. And I wanted to feel undeniably sexy—not just for him, but for myself.

Rummaging through the vanity closet, I found razors, oils, creams... and a sealed, professional-grade wax kit.

I studied the packaging. The glowing model promised salon-quality smoothness.

How hard could it be?

I’d excavated ancient Roman ruins, cataloged artifacts with tweezers under a magnifying glass, and reconstructed pottery shards that had been buried for two thousand years. Surely, I could manage a little waxing.

Twenty minutes later, I realized waxing was nothing like excavating.

“Porca miseria,” I hissed through gritted teeth, staring in horror at the disaster between my legs.

The prep had gone smoothly. I’d followed the instructions to the letter, heating the wax in the microwave and testing the temperature on my wrist. Then I applied it carefully and covered it with a cloth strip.

But when I gripped the edge and pulled, nothing happened. The wax remained glued to my skin like industrial cement.

Bracing myself, I yanked harder. Pain shot through my core, but the strip barely budged.

“Okay,” I muttered, sweat beading on my forehead. “Maybe I need to pull faster.”

I yanked with everything I had. Half the wax ripped away, taking an excruciating patch of skin with it, while the rest remained stubbornly attached. Worse, my fingers were now coated in sticky, unyielding residue.

Panic set in.

I tried the included soothing oil, but it just made everything slippery. I tried hot water, but that made the wax stickier. When I pressed new cloth strips, it only spread the mess. Using a hand mirror, I surveyed the damage—it looked like a patchy, half-finished landscape project.

And I was supposed to be ready for a sexy date in two hours.

“Merda. Merda. Merda.”

My throat tightened. Of course this would happen. Of course, I couldn’t do this one simple thing without it becoming a catastrophe. That would be too easy. Because that’s how my life worked now. Everything I touched turned to disaster.

Hot, humiliating tears pricked my eyes. I sank onto the closed toilet seat, clutching my towel to my body. This was so stupid. I was crying over wax. Of all the things going wrong in my life, I was about to have a breakdown because I couldn’t properly groom myself.

Get it together, Serena.