Page 47 of Darkest Oblivion
Giovanni ran ahead, opening the door. Dmitri lowered me into the backseat; the leather was cool against my bloodied jeans, and a streak of red pooled on the pristine floor.
The car purred to life, rolling away from the jet, its engines swallowing the night’s chaos.
I studied him—his suit stained, face a mask, eyes locked ahead. Each drop of blood on the floor was a mark of my failed escape.
“I’m... sorry,” I murmured, voice small and trembling, part fear, part gratitude.
He’d saved me—but at what cost?
He didn’t answer, didn’t even glance at me. His silence was heavier than any punishment.
My cheeks burned from the slaps, my legs throbbed, and the ache of almost-freedom gnawed at me.
Dmitri Volkov had dragged me back into his cage, and I hated him—his control, his cruelty, the boy I had once loved. Yet,a small, traitorous part of me clung to the memory of his arms holding me, the faintest flicker of safety in a world of devils.
His warning—if you humiliate me, I’ll kill you—and the cold execution of the woman for insulting me gnawed at my thoughts, a hypocrisy that cut deeper than any physical wound.
“I...” I began, voice trembling, catching in my throat, “I just... I thought I had to do something to escape this place. I might not get another chance.”
His silence was a storm, impenetrable.
My chest tightened. I pressed my damp palms against my face, trying to bury the panic racing through me.
What had I done? Was I facing death for my outburst, punishment for revealing his forced marriage, or something even worse?
The car slowed, gliding up the long drive to Dmitri’s Lake Como estate.
I hesitated as he stepped out first, his boots silent on the driveway. My muscles screamed for rest, yet my mind spun with exhaustion and dread.
There was no running—not tonight, not ever.
Inside. My sneakers scuffed faintly as I followed, every step echoing my fear. Dmitri’s composure was unnerving, each step measured
“To the room,” he commanded, each syllable carrying the weight of absolute authority.
I nodded, heart hammering, shuffling toward the bedroom
Why this room?
He entered behind me, the door locking with a soft click that reverberated like a gunshot.
My breath hitched.
His gaze swept over my bleeding legs, the tattered denim sticking to the cuts, and he didn’t flinch. Instead, he moved with measured precision, dragging a velvet chair across themarble floor, its legs scraping loudly. He sat, legs crossed like a monarch, eyes fixed on me—icy, unyielding.
Then he moved to the nightstand and retrieved a slim black leather pouch. Small and precise, it held bandages, antiseptic wipes, and a tiny vial of alcohol, each item perfectly arranged under the fractured chandelier light. He gestured sharply, and I held out my leg.
“You’re clumsy,” he said flatly, tone void of softness, yet precise as a scalpel. “But you’re still my responsibility. For now.”
I swallowed, heart hammering, as he knelt before me, rolling up my jeans and inspecting the gashes.
His fingers were methodical, pressing antiseptic over the scrapes, cleaning the blood with clinical efficiency. The sting made me wince, but he ignored it, eyes locked on mine.
“Breathe,” he said, almost as if issuing a command to a soldier.
He wrapped the bandages tightly, securing them with a deliberate twist. “Pain reminds you where you are,” he murmured, voice low, almost a growl, “and who owns your ass.”
I flinched at the words, humiliation and fear mingling, but his movements were careful in execution, never faltering, his wolf ring glinting with each twist of the bandage.
