Page 23 of Darkest Oblivion
He brushed his thumb along my jaw, not tender but claiming, the touch branding. “Your mother and Nonna can light a hundred candles, sing a thousand songs—it won’t change the truth. You wear my vows now. You breathe under my rule.”
“Let me at least say them goodbye,” I begged, my voice cracking, desperation tearing through me.
Dmitri’s jaw flexed, his icy eyes narrowing as if I’d insulted him.
“Goodbye?” His voice was a low growl. “No, Penelope. There will be no goodbyes. Not to your mother, not to your Nonna, not to anyone. You think you’re leaving one life for another?” He shook his head, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “That life is over. Dead. Buried. Today, you were reborn—my wife, my possession. You don’t say goodbye to ashes.”
He traced his thumb over my lips, forcing my gaze to his. “You’ll speak to them again—but only when I allow it, and only as Mrs. Volkov. Not as Penelope Romano. That girl no longer exists.”
I twisted away, fury blazing through my veins. “No. This is madness. I won’t go.”
His mouth tilted, not in warmth but in mockery—like a wolf baring its teeth before the kill.
In a flash, his hand snapped to my arm, grip bruising. “How far do you think you can run with those pretty little legs, Penelope?” His gaze raked down my body, deliberate. “And do you really think Dmitri Volkov needs anyone’s consent to get what he wants?”
The implication struck deeper than his grip—this wasn’t just about marriage.
He was threatening every inch of me, including my body.
My stomach lurched.
I yanked harder, panic and rage clawing inside me, but his hold was unshakable.
“No!” My voice cracked, desperation breaking through. “No, please, no!”
His answer was brutal in its simplicity.
He bent, scooping me up with one swift motion, and slung me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing.
My world inverted, the ground tilting and swaying beneath me.
I screamed, thrashing, pounding my fists against his back. “Let me go! Let go!”
The crowd from the hall lingered at the edges—men with power, women dripping in jewels—but not one soul moved to help me.
Their eyes followed, wide and horrified, yet their bodies stayed frozen.
No one dared challenge Dmitri Volkov.
Humiliation burned hotter than fire in my chest. I was a Romano—not some prize to be paraded. Anger surged sharper.
A sharp crack split the air as his palm landed on my ass.
I gasped, shocked, the sting searing through my humiliation.
“Be still, Penelope,” he growled, his voice vibrating against my body.
“Fuck you!” I screamed, kicking wildly, my dress riding up my thighs, my hair a mess around my face.
The more I fought, the steadier his stride became, as if my resistance fed his dark amusement.
The helicopter loomed, its blades whipping the night into a frenzy.
He carried me up the steps and into the waiting cabin, then dropped me into the leather seat like a caged bird.
The interior was luxurious—cream leather, a polished bar stocked with crystal decanters—but all I saw was confinement, my prison gilded in wealth.
I lunged for the open door, shoving against the frame, my voice hoarse with rage. “Let go! Let me out now!”
