Page 110 of Twisted Addiction
His breathing was steady, mine erratic.
My hands trembled as I shifted, rising to my knees on the bed. Then, before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed the hem of my top and pulled it over my head.
The cool air kissed my skin, and his gaze—sharp, startled—followed the movement.
“You’ve forgotten how to want me,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt, “You don’t even think about fucking me, do you?”
The question hit like a slap, hanging between us.
His eyes darkened, that familiar storm gathering behind them.
When he spoke, his voice was raw, stripped of its usual control. “Think about it?” he rasped. “I dream about it. Every night. Every damn second. But this marriage—your silence, your rejection—made it impossible. And of all the things I am, forcing myself on you isn’t one.”
I held his gaze, refusing to look away. “I want my last night with you to mean something,” I said.
The words came out like a dare.
He studied me, expression unreadable, a smirk ghosting his lips that didn’t reach his eyes. “This won’t be your last night with me.”
Something in his tone froze me.
The smirk vanished, replaced by that old, familiar stillness.
My heart kicked against my ribs. “Have you changed your mind about letting me go?” I whispered, afraid of the answer.
“You’re leaving tomorrow,” he said simply. “Nothing’s changed.” He paused, then added, quieter, almost to himself, “But you’ll return.”
A chill rippled through me.
I let out a short, bitter laugh, though my voice cracked at the end. “Or you’ll come for me,” I said, my tone trembling between fear and defiance. “Like you did on my twenty-fifth birthday—when you showed up in New York and called it fate.”
He didn’t look away, didn’t deny it. Just sat there, watching me—like a man memorizing a ghost he knows he’ll have to haunt.
“Milaya...” His tone was low, a growl barely restrained. “No matter what’s happened, no matter what you’ve done... you are still the only woman who holds me, who owns me. And you are beautiful. Always.”
A hollow scoff slipped past my lips.
Beautiful.
The word felt like mockery. Maybe it was.
Seraphina’s name echoed in my mind—a melody of perfection, grace, and everything I wasn’t.
I could almost hear him whispering those words in another woman’s ear, the thought slicing through me like glass.
“Take me,” I said, the words spilling out before I could stop them. “I’m yours tonight.”
His brow furrowed, suspicion clouding the heat in his eyes. “Why?” he asked, voice cautious.
Yet his body betrayed him—his jaw tightened, his chest rising faster, his hand twitching like it ached to touch me.
“Because,” I said, holding his gaze, “no matter what you’ve turned me into, I’m still your wife.”
He inhaled sharply.
Then, to my surprise, he shook his head. “No,” he said, voice strained but certain. “I want you—every second of every damn day. I dream of you under me, gasping, clawing, mine. But not like this. Not when everything between us is poison.”
“Poison?” I bit out, my anger flaring. “You can’t touch me because of guilt. Because deep down, you know you’ve gone too far.”
