Page 56 of Twisted Addiction
The silence of the cathedral pressed in around us, vast and suffocating.
The statue of his mother loomed above—scarred, solemn, eternal—bearing witness as his thumb traced the line of my jaw like a man tracing the edge of a weapon he didn’t know how to use.
“Then what is it?” I breathed, my voice breaking.
His answer was a whisper that burned. “Punishment,” he said. “For both of us.”
Chapter 14
PENELOPE
The word punishment hollowed the air between us.
It hit me like a blade, sharp—because he wanted me to feel it, to understand the twisted truth he’d built our entire marriage on.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
My chest heaved against his, and the sound that escaped me wasn’t quite a sob—it was something rawer, smaller, like my body was remembering pain before my mind caught up.
I lifted my hands and pushed weakly at his chest, but he didn’t move. His grip only tightened, as if the act of holding me was the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely.
Dmitri’s eyes burned into mine, a storm of intensity that made my heart stutter.
I searched his face, desperate for a crack in his guarded facade, but he hid his feelings with a skill that left me grasping at shadows.
“I tried to forgive you,” he said, his voice splintering. “I tried to pretend you weren’t the reminder of everything I lost. But every time you breathe next to me, every time you look at me like I’m still the boy you knew—” He broke off, his hand tightening at my jaw. “It feels like betrayal.”
Tears stung my eyes, blurring the flicker of the candles behind him.
“You think it’s betrayal to still love you?” I demanded, the words trembling but fierce. “You punish me for what you can’t forgive yourself for. You want to bury me in your pain because you can’t crawl out of it alone.”
Something in him shifted—fractured.
His breath came ragged. He stepped back half a pace, as if my words had struck deeper than any weapon.
But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
“You’re not punishing me, Dmitri. You’re punishing yourself. And if this—” I gestured weakly between us, to the invisible chain binding us together “—if this is what’s left of love for you, then maybe I’d rather be hated.”
He stared at me—silent, unmoving, but the flicker in his eyes wasn’t rage anymore. It was devastation.
I took another step back.
My hands were shaking so hard I could barely curl them into fists.
“You said I’m yours,” I whispered. “Then be a man and choose what that means. Possession or love. Control or forgiveness. You can’t keep breaking me to prove you still feel.”
He said nothing. Just watched me like a drowning man watches the last breath he’ll never take.
Then swiftly, he closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, his lips crashing against mine with a ferocity that stole my breath.
I should have resisted, pushed him away, but his kiss was a tidal wave, overwhelming and relentless, drowning my resolve.
His mouth moved against mine with a desperate hunger, teeth grazing my lower lip, tongue demanding entrance as if he were starved for me.
My body betrayed me, leaning into him, my hands clutching his shoulders as I kissed him back with equal fervor, our lips locked in a dance of need and defiance.
He lifted me effortlessly, his hands gripping my hips as he carried me to the edge of a pew, setting me down with a gentleness that contrasted the fire in his kiss.
