Dark Desires

Chapter Five

The elevator let out a soft chime as it stopped at the top floor. The doors opened slowly, and Elara stepped out—quieter than usual. The heels were gone today. Her black platform shoes made no sound against the floor, just like she herself didn't. Her outfit was more subdued. Instead of the bold, body-hugging dresses, she now wore a navy-blue pantsuit made of soft-woven fabric, with a high-neck, long-sleeved blouse. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Not a single strand was out of place.

She wasn't defiant. She wasn't broken. She was just... distant. It showed most in her eyes. The blue no longer sparked. No shimmer, no fire. Only a cold, watching gaze. As if she'd shut the world out completely and was now running solely on some internal survival mode. When she stepped into the office, a quiet "good morning" left her lips, but she didn't seek eye contact. She didn't want attention. She just... wanted to be invisible.

Her desk was neat as always. Her movements were precise, deliberate. Even the pen was placed exactly where it had been the day before—only now, a little closer to the edge. As if she knew: today, there could be no mistakes. Not even a millimeter. Dareth stood by the window, his back to the door, but he noticed the change the moment Elara walked in. The movement came from a different place. The arc of her step was shorter. Her head tilted slightly lower. The color of her clothes, too, was different. Not brighter or more noticeable—quite the opposite. It was like... she wanted to disappear into the space.

And her eyes. Those same eyes that had held the line even under fire yesterday, now carried something else. Their blue hue blurred by something—exhaustion. A mask. Or a layer so subtle most wouldn't notice. But he... he noticed. The "mask" Elara had worn—the disciplined, always-in-control posture—was no longer a mask. Today, it was a stone wall. Solid, thick, impenetrable. Built not to hide—but to protect. And behind it, something trembled uneasily.

Dareth didn't say a word. Made no remark. Asked no questions. But his focus... it stayed on her. He no longer saw just the assistant.

He saw something else. Something familiar. She reminded him of something. Someone. Maybe of himself. From another time, another life. Another face that had also learned how to survive in silence, without letting anyone see how long ago the pieces had fallen apart.

Elara, meanwhile, took out her laptop. Started working. Flawlessly. Silently. And Dareth—who had sliced her every word with knives the day before—said nothing today. He just watched. And for the first time, felt something he couldn't quite name.

⸻

The café door jingled softly as Elara stepped inside. The sound of the chime was familiar, and yet today it rang like a quiet reminder from the outside world: you're still here, you haven't fallen apart yet. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the front windows in narrow bands, crawled along the marble floor, glinted off the rims of water glasses, and painted the air with color.

Elara walked quietly toward the back corner table where Sabrina was already waiting—two steaming coffees and a chocolate croissant laid out in front of her, the kind Elara never ordered for herself but always took a bite from. Sabrina smiled, but behind the smile was careful observation. As Elara sat down, the first thing she noticed: the woman wore no makeup, only a faint dusting of powder, her eyelashes barely visible. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her usual confident appearance had been replaced by muted, dark-toned clothes. As if she were deliberately trying to be... less.

"Hey," Sabrina said softly, instinctively removing her phone from the table and pushing it aside like an unwanted distraction. "You're not easy to get ahold of in the middle of the day."

Elara responded with a faint smile. The kind of smile formed not by the lips, but only by thought.

"Busy day," she replied. "New leadership. Everything's... a little loud."

Her voice was cool, measured. Too clear. Like water that had been sitting in a glass for hours.

Sabrina nodded, then sipped her coffee. The silence wasn't uncomfortable—but it was dense. Her gaze didn't move from Elara's face.

"You say it's loud..." she repeated slowly. "But you look like the whole world has gone mute around you."

Elara lowered her eyes. Her fingers rested on the cup's handle. Her skin felt cold against the porcelain.

"Just tired," she said. "That's all."

Sabrina remained silent for a moment. Her gaze rested gently on Elara's face like a warm light—not meant to burn, just to see.

"Elara, you don't act like this when you're just 'tired'," she said quietly. "I know you. I've seen you pull eight days of overtime straight while still attending courses. And even then, you glowed more than you do now."

Elara smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"I've changed since then," she said softly.

"You haven't changed. You just shrank," Sabrina replied gently. "Like a girl who's been hit in the head too many times and doesn't dare lift it anymore."

Elara's lips tightened. She didn't respond. But the hand that had been holding the cup steadily suddenly trembled for a split second, as if even her own body had stopped obeying.

Sabrina's voice dropped even further.

"What happened? The boss? The new guy?" she asked carefully. "That... Dareth?"

Elara froze for a moment. She didn't flinch. Didn't protest. She just became completely still. The air seemed to stop in her lungs.

"No... nothing specific," she said finally. "Just... familiar. That feeling when no matter what you do, it's never good enough for someone."

The silence now was heavy. Like a bag being set down, its contents finally spilling out.

Sabrina lowered her head, then replied quietly:

"Elara... you know I won't ask if you don't want me to. But if someone's hurting you—in any way—you don't have to carry that alone. Especially not like it's some kind of duty."

Something flashed in Elara's eyes. Not tears. Not anger. But something only someone who's almost been lost can recognize. And still stood.

"I'm fine," she said at last, softly. "Really."

But her eyes... said otherwise.

⸻

Dareth watched the city from the office window. Below, the lines of cars moved almost inorganically, like a nervous system. Lights shimmered, the wind battered one of the flags hanging off the side of the building. But he wasn't looking at the city. His focus was elsewhere.

He was counting backward.

It had been exactly twenty-two minutes since Elara left.

Vampires didn't perceive time the way humans did—but Dareth's senses had adapted to the rhythm of the human world in recent months. It was the cost of infiltration, of operating beyond his realm. The hunter, long accustomed to silence, now had to listen again to the unnecessary noises. Elara's steps weren't loud—yet they couldn't escape his attention. The soft chime of the elevator, the tap of fine-soled shoes on the hallway floor... and then the door opening. A quiet, clean sound. The air shifted when she entered. Dareth felt it immediately. The scent of her blood hadn't changed—still too pure, too closed off, too sweet. But there was something else in the air. Something only those who had seen a thousand battles and listened to ten thousand broken bodies could detect—right before the last spark of hope died within them.

Elara entered. And she was different. Her posture was still straight—but not naturally. It was forced.

Her breathing was calm—but too even, too regulated, as if she had trained for it. Her heartbeat... that gave her away the most. Just a shade faster. A fraction harder. A beat more lifeless.

Dareth didn't move. He didn't look at her. But he saw everything. The bun was flawless. The dress, strictly tailored. Her eyes... glassy. Her pupils didn't tremble, but her focus drifted now and then. Her blood pressure wasn't alarming, but her nape was sweating. Not much—just enough to tell when someone was trying not to think about what happened last night.

Dareth closed his eyes for a moment. The sounds roared in his head—the echoes of the past, the fights, the last breaths, the broken gazes he'd seen over and over in the seconds before death.

Elara hadn't died now. But something inside her had cracked.

And that... unsettled him.

Why? He didn't know. Didn't want to know.

He didn't care about people. Their weakness, their secrets, none of it mattered to him.

And yet... something inside him wouldn't tolerate seeing this woman—this woman he'd been trying to neutralize within himself for days—looking like that. Coming back like that. Trying to piece herself back together like that.

There was no blood. No wound. But Dareth knew:

Someone had broken her once.

And now... it might have been him who touched that break again.

The thought sent a dark, animal tremor through his arms. His stomach tightened.

It wasn't guilt. Not pity either.

It was something else. Unease. Confusion. Irritation.

He didn't want to see this weakness. He couldn't allow himself to care.

But as Elara sat at her desk in the corner, pulled out her chair, straightened her papers, and began rewording a perfectly unnecessary email she had already completed earlier—Dareth was certain:

This woman was broken.

And yet she lived.

And that was the most dangerous kind.

He watched her sit. Her movements were flawless, almost mechanical—like someone who didn't live, just functioned. Her posture perfect, her outfit severe, not a single strand of hair out of place in her bun.

And still... something discordant pulsed in every movement.

The hunter's instinct didn't settle. He needed to understand something.

What had happened? What had changed? What had begun to shake inside her?

And if she wouldn't say it, he would draw it out. Or at the very least, find her limits.

He stood. His steps were silent as he crossed the office and stopped in front of her desk.

"Miss Vance," he said, his voice as neutral as the silence before a cut. "The cooperation file I sent last week—please print it again. In person. In color. All twenty-six pages, in a separate folder, two copies. I need them in thirty minutes."

Elara looked up. For a moment, she just stared at him, as if weighing something.

Her eyes weren't empty—just too quiet.

"I updated and organized the file digitally last night, as requested," she said softly. "There was no mention of printing."

"There is now," Dareth replied coldly. "Don't argue. Do it."

Elara nodded. Her hand moved slowly to pick up her pen, but Dareth noticed—the fingers trembled. Barely. Almost imperceptibly. But he noticed.

Ten minutes later, he spoke again.

"Please reschedule tomorrow's partner meeting. Move it two hours earlier and find a new location—in that building we haven't visited this week."

Elara opened her mouth, then closed it again. She stood and nodded silently.

There was no protest on her lips.

But her breathing... was too fast.

Twenty minutes later, she stood before Dareth again, but this time her movements were slower. She laid the papers on his desk, slightly askew. Not roughly. Just enough to be imperfect.

"Apologies," Dareth said softly. "I can't use them like this. Please organize them again—or better yet, start over."

And then it happened.

Elara didn't answer.

Didn't protest.

Didn't cry.

She just stood there.

Her hands trembled. First the right. Then the left.

The corners of the paper twitched beneath her fingers, as if her body could no longer hold the shape it had been forcing for days.

Dareth, for the first time, didn't know what to say.

The sight... wasn't dramatic.

But something in him moved. Something deep and unpleasant.

Too familiar.

Elara stepped back without a word, reached for her bag, and in a quiet, controlled voice, simply said:

"Excuse me. I'll return shortly."

Her voice was clear, polite, professional—but something had irreversibly shattered in her eyes.

Her movements were quicker than before.

The door closed softly behind her.

And Dareth... just stood there.

The room went silent.

But it wasn't peaceful.

The air was full of a strange, foreign feeling. Something like guilt. Not quite—but close.

Like when a predator bites too deep by accident—and the prey doesn't run, but simply collapses.

He'd pushed something too hard in her.

And now... he didn't know why his own fist was clenched so tightly at his side.