Page 65 of Take Me Darkly

She peered over the rim of the mug, her dark eyes narrowing in a mix of suspicion and intrigue. “What kind of surprise?”

“The kind I’m not ruining by explaining.”

She studied me for a moment with those assessing eyes. “Is it a surprise that requires me to look presentable for people at this ungodly hour?”

“You always look presentable.”

“Be serious, Anton.”

I chuckled. “It’s a good surprise. Nothing formal. Wear something that you don’t mind getting dirty.”

That suggestion landed differently than I expected. A sudden heat flared in her eyes, her mind clearly darting to the possibilities of what ‘dirty’ meant. I supposed using that word while residing in an apartment above a sex club could easily clash with the standard context. I let the wicked implication hang in the air, offering no further context as I stood up.

In the walk-in closet, I chose a dark henley and jeans, something simple and practical. No bespoke Italian suit. No silk tie. I’d worn that version of myself like armor for so long it felt structural, but Serena was systematically stripping away my defenses, piece by piece.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. It made me feel like a fish out of water. I dealt in certainties, risk calculations, and controlled outcomes. But Serena was a variable I never accounted for. She’d woven herself into the fabric of my life in the most unpredictable ways. I saw it in the small accommodations I made for her—like the extra towel always set out in the bathroom, or the way I’d cleared out closet space for her, or the way I’d rearranged my daily business routines to carve out time for her.

There was no doubt that I was irrevocably in love with her. I just didn’t know how to tell her.

There were men who could say it so casually, as if love were ambient and unremarkable and simply something that was. For me, the word had always caught somewhere in the back of my throat, as if it were oversized, as if saying it aloud would make it real in a way that put me at risk. The word signified everything I could lose.

So, I didn’t say it.

Instead, I built her a studio.

It had taken three weeks, two heated calls with Tony Marcelli about ventilation specs, a custom order on the glory hole furnace from a fabricator in New Jersey, and a sleepless stretch of nights poring over security specs around the workshop with Zeke. He took the task seriously, maintaining the expression of a man being asked to plan a military extraction rather than a glassblowing workspace.

Now it was finally done, and I couldn’t wait to show Serena. I’d seen the want in her eyes whenever the topic of glassblowing surfaced. She missed it—the making of things, the heat and the focus that came with holding something molten and deciding what it became. In a way, she was so much like her glass creations, and under pressure, extraordinary things happened. Left to sit still, the fire went out. I intended to fix that.

She came out of the bedroom seventeen minutes ahead of schedule, proving her curiosity had won out. She wore dark jeans, an old gray pullover that slouched off her shoulder, her dark hair pinned up loosely, her skin entirely bare of makeup. She looked young, fierce, and stunning.

And resting against her chest was the amethyst panic pendant. I felt a quiet wave of possessive satisfaction seeing it there. She’d adapted to wearing her lifeline without argument.

“Ready?” I asked, reaching out to capture her hand.

I led her out of the apartment, guiding her down an administrative corridor she hadn’t yet explored, past Zeke’s master security hub, and through a heavy set of double doors that opened into the rectory courtyard.

At the far end stood the old rectory garage. When I acquired the property, it was a damp, rotting storage space. But Tony Marcelli had executed my directives flawlessly. The new double barn doors were crafted from heavy dark wood, fitted with hand-forged iron hardware.

We stopped a few feet from the threshold. Serena looked at the massive doors, then turned her wide blue eyes to mine.

“Anton... what is this?”

“Open it.”

She stepped forward, her fingers wrapping around the iron handle, and pulled.

The double doors swung inward, and a dense, dry heat immediately rushed out to meet us. I’d ordered the primary furnace lit hours ago so the space would be primed the moment she walked in. The air carried that distinct, mineral scent of molten silica mixed with fresh timber.

I watched her face as she crossed the threshold.

The master furnace dominated the center of the cavernous room, its heavy steel casing painted matte black, flanked by secondary reheating chambers. Against the far wall sat an industrial-grade annealing oven, flanked by an organized rack of blowpipes, punty rods, jacks, and shears. A polished steel marver table ran along the left wall under high-efficiency task lighting, complete with custom bench seating.

Everything was state-of-the-art, pristine, and built exclusively for her.

Serena walked slowly into the center of the studio, her fingers trailing reverently over the smooth steel of the marver table. She stopped at the tool rack, her hand reaching out to wrap around the neck of a blowpipe. She lifted it slightly, balancing its weight, before turning back to face me.

Her eyes were luminous, brimming with an emotion that stripped away her defenses.