Page 10 of Twisted Addiction
I stared at him.
My chest tightened, words bubbling up like poison I couldn’t hold back.
“You married me because you wanted an heir, didn’t you?” My voice cut through the hum of the engine. “Yet you told me I wasn’t worthy of carrying your child. You said fucking me was nothing more than marking me as yours.”
My nails bit into my palms, drawing crescents in my skin. “You need an heir within a year or you’ll lose your empire, right? So tell me, Dmitri—if I can’t give you one, do you already have another woman waiting to breed your heir?”
His gaze flicked toward me, just once, but the weight of it pinned me to the seat. His grip on the wheel tightened, the leather creaking beneath his hands, knuckles straining bone-white.
“Yes,” he said, voice smooth as a blade. “I need an heir before I turn thirty-one. That’s the law of my world. No heir, no empire.” His lips curved—not in a smile, but something colder. “But I didn’t marry you for that.”
The SUV seemed smaller as he went on, his tone calm, precise, merciless. “I married you because you made me a promise when you were fifteen. And because I will never forgive what your parents stole from me. You belong to me, Penelope—for blood, for debt, for punishment.”
His eyes slid to mine again, and the faintest flicker of something feral moved in their depths. “I never said you weren’t worthy of carrying my child. I never said touching you was just about claiming what’s mine. Stop rewriting the truth to fit your pain.” His voice dropped lower, darker, vibrating through the space between us. “If I wanted to brand you, you’d carry my mark where no one could ever erase it.”
The air thickened, poisoned by his hate-laced obsession, by the dangerous certainty that he’d rather destroy me than let me go.
I smirked bitterly, turning to gaze out the window at the blurring landscape of Lake Como’s winding roads, the serene water mocking my turmoil.
I wished I could hurl something at his smug face again, anything to shatter that composure.
“Such audacity,” I whispered, then louder, “such audacity to sit there and lie to my face—when you clearly texted me. Or have you already forgotten your own words?”
The SUV vibrated with silence, his profile carved in stone, while my own voice splintered.
My voice cracked like glass as I went on.
“The day Antonio dragged me away—do you even remember that day?” My throat burned.
“I was doubled over with pain, clutching my stomach, blood soaking through my clothes, alone and terrified I was losing the baby. I called you—again and again—my hands shaking so badly I could barely press the screen. And you didn’t answer. Not once. I texted until my fingers went numb.”
My fingers curled tight on my knees. “I told you I was carrying your child—four months along—that I needed a doctor or there could be complications. And do you know what you replied?” My voice trembled, raw. “You told me to erase the child—and you—from my mind. Like we were nothing. Like I was nothing.”
Tears pricked hot at my lashes. “You said the night we shared wasn’t love, it was just you claiming me like property. You said I didn’t deserve to carry your heir.”
My throat burned; the words tumbled out faster. “You said you were punishing me with silence and endless loneliness, that it was only the beginning. That I would beg for death and death wouldn’t come.”
I turned on him then, the tears finally breaking loose, streaking down my cheeks. “Tell me, Dmitri. How much more do you want to take from me? How many more punishments until you’ve had your fill?”
He kept his eyes on the road, jaw locked so tight a vein pulsed at his temple.
“You’re speaking of words I never sent. Messages that don’t exist.”
His tone wasn’t dismissive—it was possessive, darkly amused.
“You didn’t even have my number? So how the hell could you have texted me?” he added without looking, as though I wasn’t worth even a glance from the road ahead.
“I texted you, and you replied!” I screamed, my voice ricocheting off the SUV’s walls.
Fury and grief tore through me; before I could stop myself, I lunged and slammed my fist into his arm—hard enough to jolt the wheel.
The car swerved a fraction, but he corrected it instantly, expression unreadable, as if my outburst hadn’t even touched him.
Pain shot up my knuckles, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache clawing at my chest.
He slowed the car, but not because of my outburst; we’d arrived at the hospital’s underground garage, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows.
He parked with precision, killing the engine before turning to me fully, his presence overwhelming in the tight space.
