The Monster I Crave

The Midnight Summon

The days bled into one another, a monotonous cycle of degradation and survival. Aria learned the rhythm of the house quickly, not out of obedience, but out of self-preservation. She scrubbed baseboards until her fingernails cracked. She polished silverware until her reflection stared back at her, distorted and mocking. She avoided Silas during the day, a ghost in the periphery of his life, moving silently through the corridors, hoping to remain unseen.

But she could feel his eyes on her. Even when he wasn't there, she felt the weight of his gaze, a physical pressure on the back of her neck. The other servants whispered about him, about his moods, about the women who came and went from his bedroom-models, socialites, women who left in the morning with satisfied smiles and designer clothes. Aria was none of those things. She was the scrubber, the floor-kneeler, the girl with the toothbrush.

Three nights after the stable incident, sleep evaded her. The thin mattress was a torture device, springs digging into her ribs. The window rattled in its frame, the wind howling a mournful song outside. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.

At exactly 3:00 AM, a sharp electronic buzz sliced through the silence.

Aria jumped, her heart slamming against her ribs. It was the intercom on her bedside table, a device she had never seen used. A small red light blinked rhythmically. She stared at it, her mouth dry. No one had ever used it. She had assumed it was decorative, another relic of the house's excess.

She reached out a trembling hand and pressed the button.

"Come to my room. Now." Silas's voice was low, rough with sleep or perhaps whiskey. It left no room for argument. The line went dead.

Aria sat up, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps. She looked at the door, then at the intercom. Refusing meant consequences.

She didn't change. She didn't fix her hair. She walked out of her room and into the darkened hallway, the only sound the frantic beating of her own heart. The house was different at night.

She found his door at the end of the west wing, a heavy oak slab with a brass handle. It was slightly ajar, warm, golden light spilling out onto the carpet. She pushed it open.

The room was vast, dominated by a king-sized bed draped in black silk sheets. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

Silas was sitting on the edge of the bed, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was shirtless, the firelight playing over the sculpted muscles of his chest and abdomen. A dark tattoo curled over his left pectoral, disappearing beneath the waistband of his grey sweatpants. His eyes were the same-cold, calculating, hungry.

He looked up as she entered, his gaze sweeping over her rumpled nightgown, her bare feet, her tangled hair. A slow smile spread across his face.

"You came," he said, his voice a low purr. "Good."

Aria stood just inside the doorway, her hands clenched at her sides. "What do you want?"

He set the glass down on the nightstand and stood up, the movement fluid and predatory. He crossed the room in three long strides, stopping just inches from her.

"What do I want?" he repeated, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm, his touch surprisingly gentle. "I want what I own. I want what is mine."

His hand slid from her ear to the side of her neck, his thumb pressing against her pulse point. She could feel her own blood hammering against his skin. His other hand found the hem of her nightgown, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of her thigh.

Aria flinched, stepping back, but he followed, his hand tightening on her neck. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her who was in control.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice trembling.

"Don't what?" he murmured, his face inches from hers. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, warm and intoxicating. "Don't want this? Don't want me?"

He didn't wait for an answer. His mouth crashed down on hers, bruising and hard. The kiss was not gentle. It was a claim, a punishment, a brand. His hand slid up her thigh, pushing the nightgown up to her hips. His fingers found the thin fabric of her underwear, tearing it aside with a sharp rip that echoed in the quiet room.

Aria gasped against his mouth, her hands coming up to push against his chest. His skin was hot, almost burning, beneath her palms. He didn't budge. Instead, he lifted her effortlessly, his hands gripping her thighs, and carried her to the bed.

He dropped her onto the silk sheets, the fabric cool against her heated skin. He stood over her, his chest rising and falling with each breath. The firelight cast his face in shadow, making his eyes glow like a predator's.

"Take it off," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for refusal.

Aria shook her head, pulling the nightgown down over her legs. "No."

His smile vanished. In its place was something darker, more dangerous. He reached down, grabbing the neckline of her nightgown, and ripped. The fabric tore with a sharp sound, exposing her breasts to the cool air. Her n*****s hardened instantly, a reaction she couldn't control.

He made a sound, a low growl in the back of his throat, and lowered himself onto the bed, his body covering hers. His weight was crushing, his chest pressing against her breasts. She could feel his heart beating against her own, a frantic, powerful rhythm.

His mouth found her neck, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin. She cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound, and he chuckled against her throat.

"Scream all you want," he murmured, his lips trailing down to her collarbone. "No one will hear you. No one will come."

His hands pinned her wrists above her head, his grip unyielding. His hips ground against hers, the hard length of his arousal pressing against her stomach through the thin fabric of his sweatpants.

He released her wrists and sat back on his heels, his eyes raking over her body. She lay there, torn nightgown hanging off her shoulders, exposed and vulnerable. He reached out, his hand cupping her breast, his thumb brushing over her n****e. She arched involuntarily, a gasp escaping her lips.

He smiled, a cold, satisfied expression. "Your body betrays you," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Even when your mind screams no, your body says yes."

He leaned down, his mouth closing over her n****e, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. Aria's back arched off the bed, a moan escaping her before she could stop it. The pleasure was sharp, unexpected, and confusing. She hated him. She hated this. But her body was responding to his touch with a hunger that shamed her.

His hand slid down her stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her underwear. He pulled them down in one swift motion, discarding them on the floor. His fingers parted her folds, his touch clinical, detached, as he explored her. She was wet, the evidence of her arousal coating his fingers.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with triumph. "See? You want this. You want me."

"I hate you," she whispered, the words torn from her throat.

He chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Hate and desire are two sides of the same coin, Aria. And right now, you're flipping it."

He positioned himself between her legs, his sweatpants pushed down just enough to free his c**k. She looked down, her breath catching. He was large, thick and hard, the veins pulsing along the shaft. He didn't bother with foreplay, didn't bother with preparation. He gripped her hips, tilting them upward, and drove into her in one brutal thrust.

Aria cried out, a sharp, ragged sound that was half pain, half pleasure. The stretch was intense, almost too much, her body struggling to accommodate him. He didn't pause, didn't give her time to adjust. He began to move, his thrusts hard and deep, each one hitting a spot inside her that made her vision blur.

He released her hips and leaned back, his hands gripping her thighs, spreading her wider. The angle changed, his c**k driving even deeper. Aria's hands fisted in the silk sheets, her knuckles white. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room-a wet, rhythmic slap that echoed off the walls.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She turned her head, her eyes meeting his. His face was taut with pleasure, his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with an intensity that frightened her.

"You're mine," he said, his voice rough. "Every part of you. Your body, your pleasure, your pain. Mine."

He shifted his angle again, his c**k hitting a spot deep inside her that made her see stars. A moan tore from her throat, louder this time, unable to contain it. He smiled, a dark, satisfied expression, and reached down to rub his thumb over her c**t.

The pleasure built rapidly, a coiling tension in her core that threatened to overwhelm her. She tried to fight it, to hold onto her hatred, but it was like trying to hold water in her fists. It slipped through, leaving only the raw, primal need.

Her orgasm hit her like a wave, crashing over her with a force that stole her breath. Her body arched, her back bowing off the bed, a scream tearing from her throat. Her inner walls clenched around him, tight and rhythmic, pulling him deeper.

Silas groaned, his pace quickening. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh, and drove into her with a final, brutal thrust. She felt him pulse inside her, his release hot and filling. He collapsed onto her, his weight crushing, his breath hot against her neck.

They lay there for a long moment, the only sound their ragged breathing and the crackle of the fire. Aria stared at the ceiling, her mind numb. The silk sheets were tangled around her legs, damp with sweat. The torn nightgown hung off one shoulder. She felt hollowed out, used, a vessel for his pleasure.

Silas rolled off her, reaching for his glass of whiskey on the nightstand. He took a long swallow, his back to her. The firelight played over the muscles of his back, the tattoo dark against his skin.

"Go back to your room," he said, his voice flat. "You're dismissed."

Aria sat up slowly, her body aching. She pulled the remnants of her nightgown around her, standing on shaky legs. She walked to the door, her bare feet silent on the carpet.

She paused at the threshold, her hand on the frame. She wanted to say something-something cutting, something hateful-but the words wouldn't come. Her throat was tight, her mind foggy with confusion and shame.

She walked out into the dark hallway, the door clicking shut behind her. The corridor was cold, the silence pressing in. She leaned against the wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, her knees drawn to her chest.

The tears came then, silent and hot, streaming down her cheeks. She cried for the girl she had been, for the life she had lost, for the betrayal of her father. She cried for the hatred that burned in her chest, and for the treacherous, shameful pleasure that still echoed in her body.

And somewhere, deep in the recesses of her mind, a terrifying thought took root: she had felt something. Not love, not desire, but a dark, twisted connection that frightened her more than his cruelty. She pressed her forehead to her knees, her body shaking, and wondered how much more of herself she would lose before this was over.