Page 74 of Darkest Oblivion
His gaze dropped to my thighs, lingering on the rolls and stretch marks I hated, and my shame surged, my legs aching to close but held open by the cuffs. “Say yes,” he said, his voice commanding. “Say yes, and I’ll fulfill every fantasy you’ve ever had.”
“Damn you,” I spat, my eyes locked on his.
I hated myself for it—for the way his hardness, straining against his trousers, thrilled me. He’d seen every flaw, every roll, and still wanted me. It was too much, the tears pricking my eyes again as I fought the pull of his obsession.
To my shock, he leaned down, his hands deftly unfastening the cuffs on my legs, first the right, then the left. My thighs snapped together, my body shrinking under the weight of my exposure.
I wanted him—God, I wanted him, this twisted psycho who’d broken me—but I hated him for it. Why was he letting me go? Was this another game?
I scrambled for the duvet beside the chaise, yanking it over my nakedness like a shield.
My heart pounded, my core still pulsing with need, but I clung to my defiance, glaring at him through tear-streaked eyes.
“Giovanni told me you wanted to dance with me,” Dmitri said, his voice obsessive. “Tomorrow night, we’re going to Lupo Nero. You’ll dance with me, milaya, and only me. Nine o’clock.” His words were a command, a vow, as if he’d chain me to him with every step on the dancefloor.
He turned toward the door, his boots heavy on the marble, and I opened my mouth, a desperate ‘Wait’ almost spilling out.
My body ached for him, my pussy throbbing, my need blinding me to the hatred I should feel. But the words died in my throat, and he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stared at the tattered remains of my jeans on the floor, the fabric a mirror of my fractured resolve.
I wanted to hate him, to rage at him for stripping me bare, for breaking me with his touch and his cruel games. But as I clutched the duvet tighter, my body still humming with the memory of his lips, I couldn’t summon the anger I needed.
The boy who’d promised me stars was gone, but the monster he’d become had claimed me—and some twisted part of me didn’t want to escape.
I slid off the chaise, my body trembling, each nerve alight from the memory of Dmitri’s touch, his scent clinging to me like a brand I couldn’t shake.
I stumbled toward a nearby wardrobe, dark wood carved with wolves whose unblinking eyes seemed to track me, judging me for my weakness.
Inside, I found a pile of Dmitri’s clothes, the faint musk of him still clinging to the fabric. My hands closed around an oversized black shirt, the hem brushing past my thighs, a fragile shield against exposure.
No pants, no underwear—just his shirt, both comfort and reminder of the monster who had undone me.
I tugged it close, my bare legs prickling with vulnerability, praying I wouldn’t run into Giovanni on my path back to my room.
The villa’s halls stretched endlessly.
My bare feet whispered across the stone as I moved, oversized shirt swaying, my heart hammering with every echo.
Dmitri’s words reverberated through my mind, paired with the lingering heat of his lips on my skin.
I rounded a corner, the corridor narrowing, and froze.
Whispers. Low, urgent voices floated from a shadowed alcove behind a tapestry of a snarling wolf, threads glinting in dim light.
The alcove was a forgotten corner of the villa, where old linens and broken relics gathered dust. Curiosity, reckless and sharp, pulled me closer. I pressed myself against the wall.
“You don’t get to look at my wife like that,” Dmitri’s voice cut through the quiet, possessive, each word a lash of alpha authority.
“I’ve been loyal to you since we were kids,” Giovanni’s tone was calm but edged with exasperation. “You think I’d have any thoughts about your wife? She’s not my type.”
I peeked around the tapestry, my breath caught in my throat. Dmitri’s broad shoulders were tense, blood-stained shirt clinging to the stitches on his side. Giovanni stood firm, scarred and composed, but his eyes were wary.
“What do you mean, ‘not your type’?” Dmitri’s voice was sharp, each syllable a warning.
Giovanni exhaled slowly, running a hand through his dark hair. “You’re letting jealousy cloud your judgment. She’s beautiful, yes—but I wasn’t looking at her. What you saw? Nothing but a misunderstanding. You know I would never betray you.”
Dmitri’s shoulders sagged slightly, a crack in the armor he always wore. “Everything I do is for her... and because of her,” he said, his voice low, threaded with an obsession that made my pulse spike and stomach churn.
