Page 101 of Twisted Addiction
“I’ll burn my way out of this cage one day,” I rasped, each syllable scraping against my throat like broken glass. “And when I do, you won’t even know where to start looking.”
His expression didn’t change—but a shadow flickered in his eyes, brief, like a crack in steel.
“You think you own me,” I went on, my breath trembling, “but one day you’ll wake up and find nothing left of me. Not my scent on your sheets. Not my voice in these halls. Just silence—and you’ll realize that’s the only thing I ever owed you.”
“I’ll never forgive you,” I whispered, tears sliding down my cheeks, “and I hope one day you understand what it’s like to beg for air in the dark, praying for someone who never comes.”
He stared at me, like my words slid right off him, unable to pierce whatever armor he wore now.
The room’s sterile hum filled the air between us, that damn monitor beeping steady and calm while everything inside me screamed.
I reached for the IV line, fingers trembling, desperate to tear it all away.
The tape ripped at my skin, the nasal cannula hissed loose, and the electrodes pulled sharply from my chest.
I wanted freedom—from this room, from the weight of his gaze, from him.
“Don’t,” Dmitri said, his voice a command wrapped in silk.
His hand closed around mine—warm, steady, possessive.
“Don’t touch me,” I snapped, yanking my arm back.
Pain flared through my veins, but I welcomed it. “Get away from me!”
His eyes softened by a fraction, but his voice stayed measured, cautious—as if speaking to a wild animal that might bite.
He leaned closer. “If you tear that line out, I swear to God, I’ll pin you down and put it back myself.”
My breath hitched.
“Don’t make me watch you die again,” he said finally, his control fraying, eyes burning with something rawer than anger. “Not like that. Not by your own damn hands.”
The steadiness in his tone only made it worse.
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I wouldn’t cry—not for him. Not now.
My breath came fast, uneven, my hands hovering midair above the machines tethering me to life.
“How long?” My voice came out small but sharp, every word tearing through my dry throat. “How long have I been like this?”
“Three days,” he said, the words clipped, but his eyes gave him away—bloodshot, sleepless. “Three days of watching you slip between life and death. Three days of praying you’d open your eyes and look at me.”
Two days in that pitch-black cell. Then three days with my body unmoving, lost to a coma.
The number sat heavy in the air. He said it as if he’d lived every second of it awake. Watching. Waiting.
He stood for a long moment, watching me breathe—as if afraid that if he blinked, I’d vanish again. Then he moved closer, silent, his shadow stretching across the bed.
His fingers brushed my temple before I could flinch.
“Does it still hurt?” he murmured.
His thumb traced the faint bruise on my forehead—the one I’d earned from slamming it into the floor, again and again, begging him to forgive me.
I stiffened, but he kept going, his touch firm, inspecting me like a man verifying something precious hadn’t been damaged beyond repair.
He tilted my chin, his gaze sweeping down my throat, pausing where the skin still carried faint discoloration from his grip.
