Page 31 of Darkest Oblivion
The words snapped between us like a whip, leaving my breath jagged.
He turned before I could fire back, his boots striking the marble in measured, deadly echoes.
He strode to the side room, shoulders broad.
“So who the hell is Seraphina?” I demanded, my voice hoarse. “And how the fuck did those hickeys get there? They don’t appear magically, right?”
He froze for half a second—then silence.
He didn’t turn, didn’t answer, just kept walking until the door shut behind him with a cold, final click.
I sat there, staring at the polished wood that had swallowed him whole, my body aching, the taste of iron still hot on my tongue.
My lip throbbed, my arms bore the shadow of his grip, and yet it was the silence that gutted me most.
His obsession was a noose tightening around my throat.
His hatred was a blade, sharp and merciless. And I was caught between them—trapped in his golden prison while my family waited across an ocean, candles unlit, cake untouched, laughter fading into silence.
On the night I should’ve celebrated life, Dmitri Volkov had stolen it.
Chapter 8
PENELOPE
My fist clenched, nails biting into my palm, as I exhaled a shaky breath, a strange relief washing over me.
Dmitri’s promise—not to force himself on me—shouldn’t have felt like a lifeline, but it did.
The bastard’s obsession was a chain, his hatred a blade, yet knowing he wouldn’t cross that line gave me a sliver of hope.
I wasn’t safe, not by a long shot, but I had room to fight, to plan.
I wouldn’t die here as his wife, caged in this gilded prison surrounded by Lake Como’s waters. I’d escape, lakes be damned, and I’d find my way back to my family.
My mind spun to them—my mother, my father, Nonna, her laughter always a beacon; my uncles.
By now, they must be tearing the world apart, demanding answers. Unless Dmitri had already poisoned the truth, telling them I’d chosen him. Or maybe the crowd at the wedding, their pitying whispers, had already carried the story back.
The thought twisted my gut.
I still couldn’t believe it—married against my will on the very day I should have been blowing out twenty-five candles?”
My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since the morning. That cake—my last taste of freedom—felt like a dream.
Gosh, I was starving.
The memory of the kitchen I’d stumbled through earlier flashed in my mind. Surely Dmitri wouldn’t care if I cooked something, right? A prisoner had to eat.
I dragged my tired legs through the cavernous living room, until I reached the kitchen.
And God—it was a chef’s paradise. Stainless steel appliances. The counters were spotless, lined with baskets of ripe tomatoes, golden loaves of bread, and jars of truffles I’d only ever seen in magazines.
The fridge hummed with fresh produce, cheeses, meats, sparkling water chilled in glass bottles.
My mouth watered. I gathered pasta, garlic, a block of parmesan, my hands trembling as I set them on the counter. For a brief moment, I almost forgot I was trapped—the scent of fresh herbs, citrus, olive oil wrapping around me like comfort.
But the illusion shattered with the sound of footsteps. Heavy. Measured.
