Page 20 of Darkest Oblivion
Even wrapped in white silk, I would never marry him. “I won’t step onto that podium,” I said, forcing steel into my tone, even as fear coiled like a snake in my gut.
His smirk deepened.
In an instant, his hand snapped to my jaw, his grip punishing, pinching hard enough that pain flared sharp through my bones.
I winced, a hiss escaping my lips.
His breath brushed my face, venom in every word.
“Whose death would sting less?” he murmured, eyes glittering with malice as he glanced at his watch with calculated ease. “Your grandmother and mother—sitting at home, waiting to sing you happy birthday? Or your father, the proud patriarch who sold your soul to me? With a single call, I can silence them all. Three minutes, Penelope. That’s all they have.”
My heart thundered, panic surging hot in my veins.
Nonna’s soft laughter. My mother’s warm embrace.
My father’s weary, guilty eyes. Their faces flashed before me, and bile rose in my throat. He wasn’t just threatening me—he was dangling their lives on a ticking clock.
Tears burned, but fury tangled with my fear. “I don’t know who you are anymore,” I whispered, voice breaking. “The boy I knew is dead. I can’t keep that promise. I don’t want to be your bride.”
He released his iron grip on my chin, his expression twisting into the cruel smile of a man who thrived on torment.
“Sadly, Penelope,” he said, drawing out each word like a sentence passed, “what you want stopped mattering years ago.”
He extended his hand toward me, dark eyes gleaming as the crowd watched, spellbound.
“Two minutes left,” he added, his tone almost playful. “And when their blood runs, it’ll stain your conscience, not mine. Hell—” his smirk sharpened, venom and delight mingling, “I don’t even have one.”
I swallowed hard, my throat sandpaper-dry, the weight of a hundred eyes pressing into my back.
A curse slipped from my lips, a bitter attempt at strength, but my hand betrayed me—shaking as Dmitri seized it.
His grip was iron, unbreakable, swallowing mine whole as though my body existed only to be tethered to him.
He tugged me forward, his stride unyielding, mine stumbling to keep pace.
The orchestra swelled again, a dirge disguised as a wedding march, each note a mockery of vows I never agreed to.
The crowd shifted, parting like obedient subjects before a king and his unwilling queen.
Faces blurred into a mosaic of greed, awe, and fear; jeweled wives whispered behind painted lips while stone-faced bosses watched like hawks, calculating every flicker of my resistance.
Heat flushed my skin, humiliation a living thing clawing at my chest. My emerald gown now felt like a mockery—a casual girl playing bride before the mafia.
My lungs squeezed tight, each breath a struggle, the inhaler in my clutch suddenly heavier than gold.
Dmitri never glanced at the crowd.
His eyes stayed forward, his expression carved from ice.
His hand dragged me down the aisle toward the altar where a priest waited, robes quivering, rosary clutched so tight his knuckles whitened.
His gaze darted between us, like a man presiding over his own funeral.
And I knew, with bone-deep certainty, that this wasn’t a wedding. It was a coronation of my captivity.
The boy I’d once loved—the boy who promised forever—had vanished. What walked beside me now was the devil himself, a man who’d burn the world just to claim me.
Chapter 6
