Dark Desires

Chapter Six

The elevator descended with a soft whir, like a cabinet guarding secrets. Elara stood with her back to the polished mirrored walls, eyes closed. Her breathing was slow but artificially regulated—just as she had practiced for years. When the display reached the basement and the doors slid open with a soft hiss, a single shadow stepped out in silence. Elara.

The gym, dark and cool, lay empty like a forgotten world. Industrial lights hummed faintly overhead, casting dim light over rows of weights, punching bags, stretching benches, and mirrors along the walls. Elara didn't look for music. She didn't need it. Silence was the only background in which she could truly hear herself.

She slowly took off her blazer, smoothed down her trousers, changed her shoes, and tied her hair into a high ponytail. The dark leggings and sleeveless black top allowed her body to move—every inch of it known to her. Because she had learned years ago how to strike. How to defend. And how to survive.

Karate wasn't just a sport. It was a lifeline. In the old days, when every door slammed and every touch made her flinch... that's where she learned to hit back—first against her own demons.

Now it was the same. She stood in front of the mirror, feet apart, knees slightly bent. A slow breath rose from her core as she entered her own inner battlefield.

"Gedan barai," she whispered the name of the technique, and her arm swept down, soft but powerful, blocking an imaginary blow.

"Oi-zuki!" The next movement was quicker, a punch combined with a step forward, striking through the air with such intent that—had someone stood there—they would have crumpled from the impact.

Then came the sequences. Kata forms she had mastered years ago, now living inside her body. Her body fought. Her soul remembered. Her mind demanded silence.

Movement after movement—forward, backward, in circles—clean and disciplined. Her arm cut through the air, her legs stepped with precision, her thighs trembled from the tension but she didn't falter.

Sweat began to form. Muscles tensed, then released. Each technique carried a memory: a night, a blow from the past, a face she wished to forget. Leonardo.

The man who once slammed her into a wall, then whispered, "You provoked me."

The man she eventually escaped—but whose movements, furious gaze, and hands... still lingered at the edges of every dream.

Now, Elara struck that shadow apart.

At the end of the final kata, she stood still. Her chest heaved. Her fists clenched. Her eyes, glazed with effort, met her reflection. But she didn't cry.

The woman in the mirror was no victim. Not an assistant. A fighter.

And if someone had been standing behind her now...

If anyone saw her in this moment...

They wouldn't have recognized a broken woman.

They'd have seen someone who still fought—long after everyone else had given up.

The steel door closed silently behind him as Dareth stepped into the basement level. The gym beneath the company was another world—far from sterile meeting rooms, the hum of coffee machines, and the mundane words that filled ordinary days. Here, a different law ruled. Here, instinct reigned.

As he slowly walked down the dim corridor, the metal bodies of the ceiling pipes echoed his steps—steps that would have otherwise made no sound. The cool, salty air clung to his skin, and the entire space felt like a floating aquarium, where only the senses mattered.

He had almost turned toward the weights when something changed. A sound. Or rather: the absence of one. He froze. The rhythm of the air had shifted. It vibrated slightly. And he knew instantly: someone was inside.

Moving along the wall, he approached the glass door of the training room. The lights were faint, and one in the corner flickered intermittently—as if the room itself wanted to withhold the secret it sheltered.

And then he saw her.

Elara.

She hadn't noticed him. Couldn't have. Her focus was entirely inward—on that quiet storm she carried within herself, the one no one ever saw.

Dareth's throat tightened.

Elara moved barefoot in front of the mirror. Her body clad in black, form-fitting training clothes, hair tied high and tight, face glistening with sweat.

But that wasn't what stole his breath.

It was the discipline.

The focus.

The clear, precise, merciless strength.

She wasn't playing. She wasn't flailing like someone trying to release daily stress. Her movements were deliberate. Trained. This was karate. Advanced level. Long practiced. The kind achieved only by those who hadn't just learned technique—but survival.

Elara's center of gravity held firm through every strike. She blocked with her arms, countered in turn. Each kata struck the air like it was flesh—and like someone should be paying for it.

She was fighting her past. Not her present.

And that... froze Dareth.

Because he knew what it was like to strike not at a physical opponent—but at a face that returned every night in dreams.

He knew this battle. From within himself. From the wars he fought in other worlds. From the kingdom he built with blood.

And now, here stood this woman—this fragile frame with nerves of steel, broken yet alive, a survivor—

who had just left his office with trembling hands, and now stood like a warrior. Unarmored. But fully armed.

He didn't move. Didn't speak. His pupils dilated. His hearing attuned to her heartbeat—steadier now than in the office. Her breathing was deep, regulated. Her body clearly knew pain. But now she wasn't afraid of it. She was using it.

And Dareth...

...didn't know what he felt.

Awe?

Anger?

Confusion?

Desire?

Maybe all of them at once.

Maybe it was that disturbing, tightening realization:

this woman wasn't someone he could dominate.

Not someone he could simply bend to his rules at will.

No.

She had learned to survive by her own rules.

And that... was dangerous.

Maybe that's why... it was so maddeningly attractive.

The handle gave a soft creak beneath his grip as Dareth quietly opened the door. The gym air was heavy—not with sweat, but with the intensity Elara exuded.

He took one step. Then another.

But she didn't hear him.

She couldn't.

She was too deep in the focus.

Too immersed in the fight.

In front of the mirror, Elara launched into another combination. Her body fluid, her movements refined—like she could shape the air itself.

Dareth hadn't intended to interrupt. Not now. Not like this.

But his instincts...

That hunter's curiosity, the genuine interest he could no longer suppress, drove him closer.

Two steps... three...

And then... it happened.

Elara turned.

A quick, precise, perfectly executed spinning kick cut through the air—straight toward Dareth's head.

Her body moved on reflex. Not her mind. A moment. A single breath. Nothing more.

His fingers caught her leg in midair. Skin met skin. The tense muscle trembled beneath his touch. The world paused for the length of one breath. Elara's eyes widened as she saw him.

The surprise... the tension... the confusion...

All of it exploded in her gaze in that single instant—but she wasn't afraid.

Dareth didn't let go immediately.

Her leg was still in his grip—raised, caught mid-thigh, the pulse throbbing beneath taut, heated muscle. Their eyes locked.

Silence.

His face was nearly expressionless. And Elara... was panting. In her eyes burned the battles of the past, the fury of the present—and something else entirely.

Something buried deep.

Something no one else usually saw.

Something Dareth now—unintentionally—did.

He finally lowered her leg, slowly, carefully, as if it were made of glass.

Elara found her footing. Stepped back.

Didn't speak.

But tensed—ready to strike again, if she had to.

Dareth spoke for the first time. His voice was low, almost hoarse.

"If this is how you handle stress... I might want to watch what I say next time."

The words sounded light, but his expression was serious. And focused.

He wasn't watching her body.

He was watching what moved behind it.

Elara's lips twitched—but she didn't smile.

"Maybe you should," she answered softly. There was no uncertainty in her voice.

But her eyes... no longer trembled.

The weight of the air pressed down on her chest as she moved with the refined precision of the katas. Her body was covered in sweat, muscles beneath her skin taut and obedient. The mirror reflected every flicker of motion, as if it too were witnessing a secret ritual.

She didn't want to think about being watched. About him watching.

But his presence filled the room before he even spoke.

Like a shadow you can't shake—only learn to live with.

Elara tried to block him out.

But when she heard his voice, it cut through the silence like a blade.

"Show me what you can do."

She stopped, slowly exhaled. Didn't answer right away. Just turned toward him, her gaze as sharp as her movements.

"It's not about what I can do. It's about what I'm willing to do."

"Then show me... what you're willing to do," Dareth replied, stepping into the sparring area.

At first, he only observed. Every movement. Every shift in balance. The angle of sliding feet. The tension in her shoulders.

Elara's body moved with perfect control.

She was like a tendon strung over a blade—tense, dangerous, beautiful.

Dareth stepped closer, instinctively assuming a defensive stance.

He hadn't learned it—he never had to.

His body remembered.

The vampire's blood dictated his movements.

He was a hunter. A predator.

Reflexes born of ancient rhythm.

Elara struck first. Her blows were quick, calculated. One side attack came alarmingly close, and Dareth barely dodged it in time. He didn't laugh. He didn't joke.

Something dark, heavy stirred within him—a grim kind of thrill.

She spun, aiming a sharp, thigh-driven kick.

Dareth moved aside—just inches from impact.

He caught her ankle mid-air.

The movement was precise, but firm.

Their eyes met for a breath.

In Elara's gaze flashed anger. Confusion. Tension.

Dareth released her leg.

She landed, stepped back, and resumed her stance.

"If you just want to watch, say so. But don't play games," Elara panted.

"I don't play games," Dareth said. "I observe. And learn."

The fight resumed—more fiercely.

Elara held nothing back now.

Her strikes and kicks came in rapid bursts, and Dareth barely deflected them.

Each contact sparked with a current—anger, pain, buried memories.

Then Elara made a mistake.

A spinning kick.

A slight, unintentional slip on the floor.

The angle was off.

And the instinct—long alert—now awoke.

Dareth didn't think.

His body moved before his mind did.

The vampire within him took over.

It wasn't human. It wasn't graceful.

It was ancient, feral instinct.

In one second, he was upon her.

The move wasn't sport.

It wasn't sparring.

It was an attack.

Pure, raw, predatory momentum.

He launched into the air, then slammed back to the mat like a shadow descending.

Elara tried to defend.

She raised her arms—but Dareth broke through.

The force of impact threw her backward—she crashed to the ground.

Dareth knelt over her.

His hand pinned her wrist to the mat, his body looming above like a predator over its prey.

There was no longer just anger in Elara's eyes.

There was fear.

Dareth was panting.

His shoulders heaved.

His grip on her was too tight—like he didn't want to let go.

Elara spoke first.

"Let me go."

Dareth froze.

Her words cut through the fog in his brain like a c***k.

Suddenly, he saw himself from the outside—his face, his eyes, his position...

And what he had done.

His body trembled.

He released her wrist.

Took a step back.

Didn't look at her.

"...I'm sorry," he said.

His voice was rough.

Low.

But the man was gone. Only the beast remained.

Elara still sat on the floor.

She didn't move at first.

Then slowly pushed herself up.

She didn't speak.

Just stared at him.

And Dareth knew: he had crossed a line.

He had awakened something.

Her skin burned where he had touched her.

Not because it hurt.

Not because he harmed her.

But because her body didn't know what to do with that tension.

Her breath was still shallow as she braced herself against the floor.

She felt like a wounded predator—suddenly forced to face her own limits.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Dareth step back.

His shoulder still trembled.

As if he too had been startled—by what he had done.

But Elara couldn't just get up.

Her body resisted.

Her fingers trembled as she pushed herself upright.

Her breathing began to steady—but her thoughts swirled in a storm.

She didn't understand what had just happened.

Or rather, she did... she just didn't want to accept it.

His movement hadn't been human.

It hadn't been normal.

And that terrified her.

But the fear ran deeper than any stranger could evoke.

It touched something older inside her.

That feeling—when someone gets too close.

Too fast.

Too suddenly.

And your body reacts... before your heart can understand what's happening.