Twisted Desire

Chapter 7: The Mark

The night was oppressive, draped in a heavy blanket of darkness that seemed to seep into every corner of the sprawling estate. The usual glittering lights from the mansion’s chandeliers and outdoor lanterns felt dimmer tonight, as if even they could sense the tension simmering beneath the surface. Inside, behind the perfectly curated elegance, something more sinister was unfolding.

Adira stood by the window of the grand bedroom, staring out into the abyss of the estate’s vast gardens. The glass was cold beneath her fingertips, a stark contrast to the heat of her racing thoughts. She couldn’t stop touching the tender bruise on her neck—the mark—the one that had bloomed on her skin just hours earlier. It was a physical reminder of how deeply entangled she had become in a world she couldn’t escape.

Her reflection in the glass seemed almost foreign to her now. The girl she had once been—so full of life, hope, and innocence—was gone. In her place stood a woman who had been broken down, reshaped, and molded by two dangerous men, each in their own way.

Her fingers ghosted over the bruise again, tracing the outline of it. Dante’s grip had been unforgiving. He hadn’t hit her this time, not exactly. His hands had wrapped around her throat, but not to choke—only to remind her that he could. That he controlled her, owned her. But that wasn’t what haunted her the most tonight.

It was Eli.

He had marked her in a way that was different, far more disturbing than Dante’s possessive violence. The scar his touch left on her wasn’t something physical, but something deeper, a feeling that had lodged itself in the pit of her stomach, writhing like a snake.

The evening had begun like any other. A dinner party, business associates, Dante playing the perfect host with Adira by his side, a doll-like figure in her flawless gown. But as the night wore on, it had turned into something else entirely. Something darker.

It was during one of those moments when Dante had left her side, absorbed in conversation with a group of investors, that Eli had approached her. He had appeared out of nowhere, as he always did, his presence like a shadow slipping through the room, unseen by most but impossible for her to ignore.

She could still feel the way his breath had brushed her neck as he leaned in close, far too close, whispering in her ear.

“You’re not as innocent as you pretend to be,” he had said, his voice a low murmur, filled with dark promise. “You can fool Dante, but you can’t fool me.”

Those words had struck her like a blow, even though his touch had been deceptively gentle. Eli had a way of seeing through her defenses, cutting through the layers she had built around herself to protect what little remained of her sanity. And he did it so effortlessly, as though he had known her for years. As though he knew every secret she had ever kept, every sin she had ever committed.

But the true terror hadn’t been in his words. It had been in the way he touched her afterward. His fingers had brushed her wrist, the contact so fleeting that no one else in the room could have noticed. Yet it had felt like a brand, burning her skin with something far more dangerous than Dante’s cruelty. It had felt like a claim.

And then, just as quickly as he had appeared, Eli had slipped back into the crowd, leaving her standing there, heart pounding in her chest, confusion and fear swirling together in a cocktail of dread. She had felt Dante’s eyes on her not long after, his gaze lingering, assessing. Had he noticed the interaction? Had he seen Eli’s subtle touch, the way it had affected her?

Adira had been careful the rest of the night, staying by Dante’s side, playing the role she had perfected—submissive, beautiful, obedient. But no matter how hard she tried to focus, her mind kept returning to Eli’s words. His touch. His dark, unreadable gaze.