The Monster I Crave

The Dinner of Wolves

The red dress was a second skin. Aria stood before the full-length mirror in her new suite, watching the way the dress caught the light, transforming her into someone else. Someone dangerous. The plunging neckline revealed the swell of her breasts, the gold dragon pendant resting in the hollow of her throat like a secret. The slit up her left thigh was a dare, a challenge, a promise of what lay beneath.

She had spent an hour on her hair, curling the dark strands until they fell in soft waves over her shoulders. She had applied the makeup Elena had left for her-subtle, elegant, enhancing her features without masking them. Dark eyeliner, a touch of blush, lips painted a deep berry that matched the dress.

She looked like a woman who belonged in this world. A woman of power and wealth, not a girl scrubbing floors with a toothbrush. The transformation was complete, and it terrified her.

A knock on the door. "Dinner is served, Ms. Thorne." Mrs. Higgins's voice was clipped, professional.

Aria took a deep breath, her fingers brushing the dragon pendant. Survive. Play the game. Learn the rules. Wait for your moment. Elena's words echoed in her mind, a mantra against the fear.

She walked through the corridor, her heels clicking on the polished floors. The house was quiet, the servants having retreated to their quarters. The dining room was at the end of the east wing, a room she had only seen once before, during her initial tour with Mrs. Higgins.

The doors were open, candlelight spilling into the hallway. Aria paused at the threshold, her heart hammering against her ribs. The room was transformed-no longer a formal dining space, but something intimate, almost romantic. The long table had been replaced with a smaller one, set for two. Candles flickered in crystal holders, casting dancing shadows across the white tablecloth. Roses-deep red, almost black-were arranged in a silver vase at the center. The air smelled of beeswax and something richer, earthier-truffle, perhaps, or aged wine.

Silas stood by the window, his back to her. He wore a black suit, tailored to perfection, his hair slicked back. He turned as she entered, his grey eyes sweeping over her body with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"You're on time," he said, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I'm impressed."

"I was told not to be late," she replied, her voice steady.

He walked toward her, his movements slow and deliberate. He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could smell his cologne-sandalwood and cedar, with a hint of something darker, like smoke. His hand came up, his fingers brushing the dragon pendant at her throat.

"The necklace suits you," he murmured, his eyes locked on hers. "A dragon for a dragon."

"I'm not a dragon," she said, her chin lifting. "I'm a prisoner."

His smile was cold. "Same thing, in my world."

He pulled out her chair, a gesture that was more performance than courtesy. Aria sat, smoothing the dress over her knees. Silas took his seat across from her, his eyes never leaving hers.

Marta appeared from the kitchen, her expression neutral. She placed a plate in front of each of them-a salad of mixed greens with shaved truffle and a light vinaigrette. The smell was intoxicating, rich and earthy. She poured them each a glass of wine, the liquid a deep, velvety red, then retreated without a word.

Silas picked up his glass, swirling the wine. "This is a 2024 Châteauneuf-du-Pape," he said. "One of my favorites. The truffle is from Alba. Freshly shaved this morning."

Aria picked up her own glass, the stem delicate between her fingers. She took a sip, the wine rich and full on her tongue. It was exquisite, a symphony of dark fruit and spice. She had never tasted anything like it.

"Beautiful things often are," Silas said, watching her. "And dangerous."

The double meaning wasn't lost on her. She set her glass down, meeting his gaze. "Is that what this is? A beautiful, dangerous evening?"

"Among other things." He took a bite of his salad, chewing thoughtfully. "Tell me about yourself, Aria. Not the debt. Not your father. You. Who are you?"

The question caught her off guard. In the weeks since she had arrived at the mansion, no one had asked her that. She was a debt payment, a possession, a servant. Her identity had been stripped away, replaced by her function.

"I was a student," she said slowly, the words feeling foreign on her tongue. "Before... all this. I was studying art history at Columbia. I wanted to work in a museum, maybe curate exhibitions. I loved the way art could capture a moment, preserve it forever."

She paused, the memory painful. "I had friends. A life. An apartment in Morningside Heights with a roommate who played guitar badly and burned toast every morning. I had... normalcy."

Silas listened, his expression unreadable. "And now?"

"Now I'm here," she said, her voice flat. "Scrubbing floors and wearing red dresses."

He set his fork down, leaning back in his chair. "You could have more, you know. If you accepted your situation. If you stopped fighting."

"I don't want more from you," she said, her voice tight. "I want my life back."

His smile was cold, predatory. "That's not on the table, Aria. Your life belongs to me now. But I can make your time here... pleasant. If you let me."

The conversation was interrupted by Marta returning with the main course-rack of lamb, perfectly pink in the center, with roasted vegetables and a rosemary jus. The smell was heavenly, rich and savory, making Aria's stomach grow.

They ate in silence for a while, the only sound the clink of silverware and the crackle of the candles. Aria watched Silas from beneath her lashes, studying the way he held his knife, the way his jaw worked as he chewed, the way his eyes kept flicking to the dragon pendant at her throat.

"Vivienne called today," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Aria's hand tightened on her wine glass. "Oh?"

"She's concerned about you. About us." He took a sip of wine, his expression neutral. "She thinks I'm making a mistake. Keeping you here. Bringing you to dinner. She thinks it's... inappropriate."

"What do you think?" Aria asked, her voice carefully casual.

He set his glass down, his grey eyes meeting hers. "I think Vivienne is jealous. She's been expecting a proposal for years. Our families have been pushing for it since we were children. And now, suddenly, there's a new woman in my life. A woman who lives in my house."

The words settled in Aria's chest, heavy and confusing. She didn't want to care about Vivienne, about the expectations, about the life Silas might have with another woman. But the thought of him marrying someone else, of sharing his bed and his name with a woman who wasn't her, sent a sharp, unexpected pang through her.

She pushed the feeling down, locking it away. "You should marry her," she said, her voice steady. "She's your equal. I'm just... a debt payment."

Silas's eyes darkened. He set his knife down, his hands flat on the table. "Don't," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Don't pretend you don't feel it. Don't pretend there's nothing between us."

"There's nothing between us," she insisted, her voice rising. "You own me. That's not a relationship. That's slavery."

The word hung in the air, heavy and charged. Silas's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He stood, his chair scraping against the floor. He walked around the table, his movements slow and deliberate, and stopped behind her.

His hands came down on her shoulders, his fingers digging into the silk of her dress. She could feel the heat of his body through the fabric, the controlled power coiled in his muscles.

"You're right," he said, his voice a low growl in her ear. "It is slavery. But it's also something more. Something you won't admit, even to yourself."

His fingers slid up her neck, his thumb brushing the dragon pendant. "You feel it, Aria. Every time I touch you. Every time I look at you. Every time you come to my bed, even when you hate me. Your body responds to mine. Your breath catches. Your pulse quickens. Your body opens for me like a flower."

His other hand slid down her arm, his fingers intertwining with hers. He lifted her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, which somehow made it worse.

"Admit it," he whispered against her skin. "Admit that you want me."