Page 134 of Twisted Addiction
“Don’t you dare touch my child!”
He turned—slowly, deliberately—and for a fraction of a second, I saw nothing human in his eyes.
The slap came faster than thought. A sharp crack split the air, echoing off the sterile walls.
Pain exploded across my cheek, blinding white, stars bursting behind my eyes.
The room spun.
I hit the floor hard, breath torn from my lungs.
Warmth spread beneath me—sudden, terrifying.
My stitches had split.
A strangled sound escaped my throat.
Blood seeped through the thin cotton of my hospital gown, sticky against my thighs.
My father just stood there, towering above me, face carved from marble— detached, unbothered.
“I think you should rest,” he said coolly, adjusting his cufflinks as if nothing had happened. “I don’t want to hit you again, but behave, child.”
I pressed trembling fingers to my cheek.
It burned, a pulsing reminder of everything he’d taken from me—my body, my memories, my voice.
The sterile air suddenly felt suffocating.
My vision blurred as the past clawed its way in—
The father who’d once steadied the handlebars of my bicycle in Brooklyn, laughing as I wobbled down the driveway.
The man who’d carried me home at twelve after a fight at school, promising I’d always be safe.
The man who’d given me a sapphire necklace on my sixteenth birthday, his voice thick with pride.
That man was dead. In his place stood a stranger wearing his face—a monster dressed in Armani.
“You’re not my father,” I whispered, tears spilling freely.
His lips curved into something that almost looked like pity. “No, I’m your reality. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be. Forget about your son, Penelope—he belongs to power now, not to love.”
He turned toward the door. But before he could reach it, the handle exploded inward.
The door slammed against the wall—
And Dmitri Volkov stormed in.
He filled the room like a thunderclap.
Black coat flaring, eyes burning, jaw set in that cold fury that made men tremble.
The air shifted—the kind of stillness before a storm tears the sky apart.
When he saw me—on the floor, blood pooling beneath me, my cheek swollen and crimson—something in him snapped.
“Milaya...” His voice broke, the Russian endearment trembling with disbelief.
