My Dark Desire: Chapter 36

The rest of the week flowed like a warm river against my skin.

On Monday, Zach asked that I accompany him to his lunches. Plural.

His intentions were clear. Spend more time together. Get him used to the idea of sharing his life with a woman.

In other words, I’d become his pet. An obedient companion that shadowed him everywhere he went, waiting for orders.

I told myself I went along with it because of the fancy lawyers he’d hired for me, but really, I enjoyed spending time together. Not exactly a compliment, given his competition.

Vera’s company could drive a nun to a dive bar. Tabby and Reggie were more suitable for black-site torture than companionship. Andras’ idea of a good time included intensive training and banana-shaped bruises from his sword.

And my sweet, beautiful Ari lived across the world.

Currently, we sat in Zach’s office, nibbling raw fish and discussing abstract art.

I couldn’t bear it. Not the food, not the scenery, and not the man I spent time with.

“Why do you eat by your screens?” I fidgeted in my chair, slinging my legs over the armrest of the velvety seat and staring at my plate.

Sashimi. Some kind of cucumber salad, accompanied by a green juice.

“Because work never stops.” A piece of toro disappeared into his mouth, but he wasn’t looking at the screens.

He was staring at me.

I picked up the unagi sashimi between my fingers, glowering at it like it personally offended me. All I saw when I stared at it was an octopus.

Zachary Sun had single-handedly ruined sushi for me.

“If you don’t take a break to enjoy all your hard work, what value does it really have?”

“You’re not an animal.” Zach sighed. “Use your chopsticks.”

“I don’t know how to.” I stabbed the raw fish with a single chopstick, using the stick as a skewer to shove salmon into my mouth. “And I thought I was an octopus?”

His eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “You lived in Korea and never learned how to use chopsticks?”

I didn’t know why, but everything this man did made me hot and bothered—even when he frowned, scowled, huffed, and berated me.

Maybe I suffered from Stockholm syndrome. But that would imply that he’d kidnapped me, rather than the simple fact that I’d lost my mind and willingly agreed to be here.

“Nope.” I popped the P, releasing an exasperated breath and pushing my plate away on his desk. “I always use a spoon and a fork. Ari always gives me shit for that.”

To be fair, everything tasted better on Korea’s ultrawide metal spoons.

Zach scowled. “Am I supposed to know who Ari is?”

“My best friend from Seoul.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Sex?”

Jealous?

I was tempted to ask.

“No, thank you,” I replied instead.

“Do not cross me, Farrow. I asked you a question.”

“So? I don’t work for you, Zachary Sun.”

“You literally do.” His lips barely moved when he spoke.

I could tell I was dragging him to the brink of insanity.

I shrugged. “Personal tidbits cost extra.”

His jaw locked.

He pulled his drawer open and plucked out his wallet, tossing a Benjamin between us. “Is Ari a girl or a boy?”

“Girl.” I shrugged. “But that doesn’t say anything about her sexual orientation.”

With an eye roll, he threw me another hundred-dollar bill.

I rolled the money together and tucked it into my waistband.

“Straight.” I smiled. “Happily engaged, too.”

“Couldn’t she have taught you how to use chopsticks?”

“Oh, she tried. But once I realized I couldn’t vacuum food into my mouth fast enough with them, I lost all interest.”

“Food is not made to be vacuumed. It’s meant to be consumed over a lengthy period of time.”

“Spoken like someone who doesn’t hold two jobs.”

He shook his head. “Constance would disown you.”

“Glad I’m not her kid, then. Better no mom than one who bends you to the only shape she can love you in.” I stood, gesturing to the plate I’d discarded, wondering if my words cut him as deep as I’d intended. A lot of layers of dead skin covered that heart of his. “Sorry, this is inedible.”

No way could I get full off six tiny slivers of fish. I craved something decadent and bad for me. Something I had no business eating.

Like Zachary Sun.

No, Fae, the logical side of my brain chided. Like jajangmyeon or pupusas.

The sooner I got that, the better off I’d be.

“It is perfectly nutritious.” He continued chewing with his mouth shut. Thirty-two times each bite. Without fail. “The ideal fuel for your body.”

“Maybe if I were a machine.” Which I seriously suspected he was. “I know my body. And it wants something that will block its arteries to the point where I’ll need acetone to clear them.”

Andras would kill me.

Andras also isn’t here.

He opened his mouth—about to scold me, no doubt—before clapping it shut, then opening it again. “Like what?”

Good question.

Anything beat what I usually stole from the fridge—Vera, Reggie, and Tabby’s gross gluten-free, sodium-free, carb-free, taste-free diet food.

Since I doubted I could handle the consequences of requesting him on a platter, pupusas needed a solid fifteen minutes to reheat in the air fryer, and my favorite jajangmyeon was all the way in Rockville, I settled for the greasiest thing I could think of.

“Pizza.” I felt my eyes crinkling as I smiled at the memory of wolfing slices down before entering a Broadway show with Dad. “I want a New York-style pizza. Huge, thin-crusted, with enough cheese to sculpt out a life-sized five-year-old.” My mouth watered at the thought. “Actually, make it an eleven-year-old.”

He looked horrified.

As if I’d told him I wanted to eat an actual child.

So, I figured—why not push the envelope a little more? Zach was so deeply offended by the pleasures of life, I wanted to make him try them.

See what all the fuss was about.

I folded my arms, leaning back. “When was the last time you ate pizza?”

His brows crashed together as he sifted through the neatly organized files of his memory. “Third… no, fourth grade, I suppose. Tr evor McKee’s birthday party. Flown in from Sicily, yet quite subpar.”

I tried flicking through his empty desk calendar with a chopstick, shaking my head. “Oh, Zach.”

“I know. Why not fly in chefs and ingredients from Italy?”

“We’re ordering pizza right now. And it better be so oily, we need four towels beneath the box to soak up the stains. And…” I tossed my hands in the air, lighting up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. “…and beers. Shitty, watery college beer.”

“Belgian beers,” he countered.

I shook my head. “Sorry, you’re gonna slum it up with me today.”

“Lovely.” He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “What’s next in my bingo card? A trip to Aldi and a fentanyl overdose?”

“Aldi is the shit.”

“The ‘the’ is silent, I suppose?”

Despite my horror at his strict lifestyle, I found myself laughing. “Oh, and you’re paying, by the way.”

He looked ready to vomit, his high cheekbones pale and sharp. My heart hiked up to my throat.

I was sure he’d say no.

After several minutes of silence, he pushed the sashimi away. “Fine. We’ll have pizza.”

“I’m glad you saw the light.”

He raised a finger. “On one condition.”

My heart galloped. “Which is…?”

Please say something dirty that I want to do anyway.

“No gross toppings.”

“Just pineapple.”

“Especially not pineapple.”

“Are you always this tough a negotiator?”

“No.” He submerged his hands in an oversized washing bowl. “I usually don’t negotiate. I just take what I want.”

“What’s wrong with pineapple?”

“Nothing.” He ran a towel over his palm. “Pizza is simply not its natural habitat.”

“What is, then?”

“The trash can.”

Rude.

“Well, I like it, and you’re going to accommodate me.”

The idea seemed to appall him. “Why?”

“Because you want me to accommodate your twelve inches.

”

“It’s not twelve inches.”

“It’s pretty damn close.”

“You are anatomically built to push out a twelve-pound human,” he pointed out.

“You’re anatomically built to eat a Bromeliad flower.”

He shook his head. “This is terrible.”

“Welcome to the world of courtship, Zachary.”

“I’m tempted to make a sharp U-turn.” Zach pressed a button on his dashboard. “Natalie. Order us a large pineapple pizza.”

“Extra cheese,” I whispered, scurrying to the edge of my seat, forgetting to keep my distance.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. His leg kicked out, rolling my chair back a half a foot.

I pouted.

He sighed but added, “Extra cheese.”

“Mr. Sun?” Natalie gasped. “Do you… need any help?”

“Clearly,” he drawled. “That’s what I’m paying you for.”

“What I mean is, are you… are you okay?”

Yup. It was that unbelievable.

“Not by a long shot.” He stared at me dispassionately, heaving a sigh. “What I am, Natalie, is pussy-whipped.”

The next day, I dragged Zach to the conservatory for lunch.

I’d always wanted to eat there, but I figured he’d need some time away after the whole burn-Eileen’s-touch-off incident.

We ate poke bowls. Salad instead of rice and extra cucumber for him. Progress.

The day after, we gobbled up branzino on the balcony.

This time, he let me feed him a roasted potato. He glowered, complaining about the grease the entire time.

Still, before the meal ended, I spotted him swallowing another one.

And the following day, I prepared both of us banh mi thit nuong—dousing the sandwiches with extra homemade aioli. I even shoved pâté in them when he wasn’t looking.

I tossed my napkin on my empty plate, reclining against my seat. “What’s your favorite piece of art?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Seriously?” I boomeranged upright. “You collect so much art, and none is your favorite?”

“Nope. Not everything needs to be measured against something else.”

“But…” I frowned. “Everyone has a favorite work of art.”

“Even you?”

“Yup. The Lobster Telephone.”

Dad used to own a replica I’d begged for. Vera had auctioned it off weeks after his death.

Zach paused, mid-bite. “By Dalí?”

It drove me crazy how tiny and measured his bites were.

Thirty-two chews each.

At my nod, he arched a brow. “That would be your favorite.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t answer me, wrapping his lips around the sandwich.

When his scheduled lunch hour ended, I double-checked his plate. He didn’t leave a single crumb.

Every morning, I spent half an hour roaming the grounds, opening every window in the manor to let the sun enter. So Mr. Sun himself would feel warmth for the first time in his life.

I refused to eat in silence, always telling him about my life.

The mother that never was. The father that was—but I could never get enough of. The loneliness.

Seoul. Fencing. Olympic dreams.

How I missed my old life. The one in Asia, far away from my evil stepsisters and stepmother.

He sat there and drank it all in. Like he had to endure human interaction.

Sometimes, when I made myself laugh, he actually recoiled.

Zachary Sun was barely human.

For me to fix him, I had to make him real.