Page 44 of Darkest Oblivion
His silence was a storm, his anger palpable. But I pressed on, fear drowned by fury.
“So, how will you bury me six feet under now, Dmitri?” I asked, trembling but defiant.
I knew I’d pushed too far, but I couldn’t stop. I hated him—his control, his cruelty, the betrayal of the boy I’d loved. I wanted to see him crumble, even if it cost me everything.
“Let’s go,” he said, gripping my hand like iron. I tried to yank free, wrist twisting, but his strength was absolute. “No more drama, Penelope. Come with me.”
I screamed, my voice shattering the ballroom’s hum. “Help me! He took me from America—brought me here against my will!”
The waltz faltered, couples froze mid-step, eyes snapping to us—shock, curiosity, judgment. “He broke your traditions! He forced me into this marriage! Locked me in his house! And now he wants me to stand here and pretend I love him before all of you! He despises me—and I despise him!”
A murmur rippled through the crowd..
“Did you hear? Dmitri Volkov actually forced a marriage... against centuries of our code,” one voice hissed, eyes darting nervously.
“Breaking tradition like that... anyone who does is marked for blood. Entire families have been wiped out for less,” another breathed, voice tight with fear.
“Survive? Don’t talk to me about survival. Cross the rules, and your name is cursed. Your estates, your men, your lives—all forfeit,” a third said, shaking.
A cold dread rippled through the ballroom.
These weren’t idle rumors—they were death sentences whispered in gold and silk. To violate tradition here wasn’t merely scandalous—it was dangerous, a provocation that could ignite feuds, assassinations, and ruin for generations. Eyes flicked to Dmitri, some in terror, some in awe.
Three men approached, tuxedos crisp, faces carved with authority. The eldest, gray beard trimmed, eyes piercing, spoke first. “We do many things,” he said, calm but firm, gaze fixed on Dmitri, “but we do not force our women into marriage. Tradition is law, and law is survival. Your wife will be returned to the United States—today.
Relief hit me like a wave; my breath caught, knees weak.
Freedom—was it real?
Dmitri’s jaw clenched, the veins in his neck tightening, but his icy blue eyes flicked only briefly to the elder before returning to the floor, as if weighing the threat.
His hands curled into fists, but he said nothing—an unusual silence that carried a dangerous weight.
I felt a surge of disbelief and triumph, my chest tightening with hope. For the first time, he was confronted, and the consequences of his actions were undeniable. I swallowed hard, lifting my chin, refusing to let fear win.
The elder leaned slightly closer, voice low but cutting. “You really think you can defy tradition, Dmitri? Do you want to gamble your empire on this? Because crossing the code carries consequences far deadlier than you imagine.”
Dmitri said nothing, his gaze boring into me for a heartbeat before he turned and strode away, steps deliberate, suit jacket flaring.
I stood surrounded by strangers—men who looked like devils, power radiating off them like heat. Two of them flankedme, gesturing toward the exit. “This way,” one said, gruff, eyes scanning the crowd.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, voice steady despite fear creeping back. The reality—mafia, not saviors—settled around me like a weight.
“To a private airstrip,” the other said flatly. “From there, you’ll be sent back to the United States.”
I followed, heart hammering.
The lake shimmered under the moonlight as they led me to a waiting car. The engine purred, a soft growl of motion.
I slid into the backseat, inhaler heavy in my pocket, mind racing.
I’d defied Dmitri, exposed his abomination, and—if only for tonight—won a ticket home. But as the car pulled away, the men’s silence, their hard faces, and Dmitri’s final glare lingered.
Freedom? Perhaps. Or just another cage, waiting. Either way, I swore: I’d escape, and Dmitri Volkov would pay for every wound he’d inflicted.
Chapter 12
PENELOPE
