Page 39 of Take Me Darkly

Me: MYLA.

Myla: Fine! Once it’s clean, shower and apply aloe vera to calm the redness.

Dammit.

I hadn’t considered irritation when I started this fool’s errand. I’d have to explain to Anton why certain activities might be off the table tonight. My face burned at the thought. Maybe I could just... not mention it? Except he’d notice if I winced every time he touched me there.

God, this is mortifying.

I silently prayed my lady bits would feel better in a few hours.

My phone buzzed again with another text from Myla.

Myla: And next time? Tell me. I’ll send the on-call spa aesthetician up to your suite.

Me: Noted. Thank you, Myla. Really.

Myla: One last thing. Wear the purple one.

My eyes widened, knowing she was referring to the lingerie Anton had given me. Now I wondered who picked it out—Myla or Anton. Regardless, the purple was also a crotchless number that I wasn’t quite sure about. Yet.

I set down the phone, a smile tugging at my lips despite everything. The panic had faded, replaced by something lighter. Almost like laughter. It had been so long since I laughed. The sensation felt foreign.

Twenty minutes later, the wax was gone. My skin was red and sensitive, but a careful trim with scissors and a razor tidied up the rest so my kitty didn’t look like a leopard print disaster.

I got into the shower, allowing the hot water to sluice over my skin, washing away the tension I carried in my shoulders. I shampooed my hair twice, conditioning it until it felt like silk, and shaved my legs with meticulous care.

After I dried off, I studied the reflection of my naked body. My shoulder had healed enough that I no longer needed the bandage. The scar was there, a puckered reminder of the bullet that could have killed me. I traced it gingerly with my finger, remembering the crack of gunfire, the burning pain, Anton catching me before I hit the ground.

Stop it. Tonight isn’t about that.

I forced myself to focus on the present and on the fact that, for a few hours, I could pretend to be normal.

I blow-dried my hair, working the brush through until it fell in soft waves past my shoulders. Makeup came next, an area that was not my forte either. In fact, there were very few girly things I was good at. So, I kept it simple and natural, using foundation to even out my complexion, mascara to make my eyes look bigger, and a touch of bronzer to add warmth to my cheeks. If I dared anything more than that, I knew I’d move into clown territory.

I went back to the lingerie, opting for the purple satin corset as Myla had suggested. The form fitting piece hugged my curves and elevated my breasts, the fabric synched to tight it felt like a second skin. Then I slid on the matching crotchless panties and garter belt and secured the black stockings. I turned in front of the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back. This version of me looked confident. Sensual. Like someone who belonged in Anton’s world.

For the outer layer, I reached into the closet and pulled out a classic black dress from my pre-trauma life—a sleek, sleeveless halter piece that fit tightly through the bodice before flaring subtly at the mid-thigh.

I slipped it on, the fabric settling against my skin. The scar caught my eye again, a reminder of a reality I couldn’t quite escape. I thought about trying to cover some of the redness with concealer, but something stopped me. This was part of me now. Part of my story. Hiding it felt like pretending the last few weeks hadn’t happened.

Anton has seen it. He doesn’t care.

I left it as is.

I slipped on a pair of stiletto heels—also a gift from Anton—and checked my reflection one final time, adjusting the dress and smoothing my hair.

A firm knock echoed at the bedroom door.

“Serena?” Anton’s low baritone carried through the panel. “Are you ready?”

I took a breath, steadying myself. “Yes, I’ll be right out.”

When I exited the room, Anton stood in the hallway. The sight of him made my mind go completely blank. He was a devastating blend of rugged power and aristocratic elegance. He wore tailored dark slacks and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his corded forearms. The top buttons were undone, exposing his throat, and the scent of his sandalwood cologne instantly made me want to bury my face in his neck.

But it was his onyx eyes that undid me. They tracked down the neckline of my dress, lingered on the short hemline, and then traveled back up to my face.

His jaw tightened. His expression turned hard.