Page 43 of Darkest Oblivion
I placed my trembling hand in his, my mind reeling.
He’d shot her for insulting me, yet his own words—heavy, unremarkable—still festered inside me.
He led me away, the terrace’s moans and shadows fading behind us until we stepped into an expansive garden.
Roses and jasmine glowed beneath strings of light, their fragrance mingling with the cool scent of earth and lake water.Privacy—so different from the ballroom’s scrutiny—wrapped around us.
I yanked my hand free, fury spiking through my fear. “You shot another woman for insulting me?” My voice shook with anger. “Do you know how many times you’ve body-shamed me? How many times your words cut deeper than that bullet?”
“I’m the only one who has the right to,” he said flatly, his towering frame framed by the tailored suit.
“So you won’t stop mocking my body?” My voice cracked, pain warring with defiance.
He closed the space between us, shadows wrapping around him like armor. “I told you to wait. Why did you disobey?”
“You think I’m some machine?” My fists clenched at my sides. “Just meant to sit, obey, and never question you? I won’t.”
His hand brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture deceptively gentle. But his voice carried that familiar wicked purr that chilled me. “Not following simple instructions will cost you more than you’re willing to pay, Penelope.”
“I’ll take the price,” I shot back, lifting my chin though my heart pounded. “Better that than being your obedient doll.”
“We’re going back inside,” he said, his tone a command. “I need you controlled. I’m about to introduce you to men who don’t tolerate weakness.”
“Good,” I said, my gaze locking with his. “Then they’ll see I’m not weak.”
He leaned in, his whisper a blade. “If you slip, if you humiliate me, I’ll kill you.”
“I know,” I replied, steady, though fear coiled in my gut like fire.
I let a mocking smile ghost my lips. “So let’s go. Or is the great Dmitri Volkov afraid I might outshine him?”
His mouth curved—half threat, half smirk. He offered his elbow. I took it, our steps syncing like a couple walking an aisle—a cruel parody of vows I’d never chosen.
We reentered the ballroom, chandeliers blazing like icy suns. Couples swayed to a slow waltz, graceful but tense.
Dmitri led me to a man in his fifties, silver hair slicked back, black tuxedo adorned with a single ruby pin, eyes sharp with authority.
“Don Fabrizio,” Dmitri said, smooth and commanding, “meet my wife, Penelope Volkov.” His hand pressed possessively to my lower back, a subtle claim, an unspoken warning.
“Nice to meet you, Don Fabrizio,” I said, voice steady, forcing a polite smile.
The man’s lips curved, gaze assessing. “I’ve been waiting to meet the lucky girl Dmitri Volkov married,” he said, warm but sharp. “Or should I say, Dmitri is the lucky one to have you?”
I smirked, letting my defiance flare. “I never consented to the marriage,” I said, voice cutting through the waltz’s notes. “He forced me into it.”
Don Fabrizio’s face paled, eyes narrowing as he turned to Dmitri. Dmitri’s hand clenched at his side, veins visible, jaw tight with barely contained fury.
His shoulders were rigid, eyes flashing icy fire.
“You do not force a woman into marriage,” Don Fabrizio said, low and rebuking. “It’s against our tradition, Dmitri. What abomination is this?”
Dmitri exhaled, voice calm but strained. “Don’t believe her.”
“Why?” Don Fabrizio pressed, tone sharp. “You wouldn’t marry a woman who loves you, then stand here denying her words. If others hear this, your reputation suffers. Come see me tomorrow, and pray her claims haven’t spread.” He turned, each step deliberate, leaving a chill in his wake.
I faced Dmitri, triumph and fear colliding. “You committed an abomination against your own tradition?” I asked, voice mocking, spark of victory burning inside me. “How noble. I hope you lose everything and are forced to send me back.”
He remained silent, eyes fixed ahead, refusing to meet mine.
