Page 49 of Darkest Oblivion
I gasped, every inhale a knife in my lungs. “Please... just... give me...” My chest heaved, my hands clawing at the air, trembling as I forced myself to suck in shallow breaths, every gasp a desperate fight against death. “I’m... dying... I can’t... breathe...”
He finally stepped back, letting me collapse slightly, catching my weight only enough to keep me from falling entirely.
My vision blurred, darkness creeping at the edges, but still I fought—forcing my lungs to expand, forcing oxygen into my burning chest. My body shook violently, but I clung to life, even as my strength faltered.
My body slumped against the marble, the cold biting through my cheek.
He bent swiftly, shoving the inhaler under my nose, his hands rough but precise.
I sucked in the mist, desperate, but it came too late—strength draining, limbs numb. I inhaled again, weakly, eyes locked on him, his face a blur—perhaps the last I’d see.
“Stay fucking alive,” he growled, raw, his hands tapping my cheeks with sharp, almost frantic precision. “Do not fucking die, Penelope. I’m not done with you.”
I tried to speak, to plead, but no sound came.
My eyes fluttered shut, consciousness hanging by a thread.
“Fuck!” he cursed, standing abruptly, voice sharp as he grabbed his phone. “Come to my house now! If anything happens to her before you get here, you’ll die too.”
He knelt again, hands trembling as he lifted me bridal-style, arms strong yet shaking.
He carried me to the bed, laying me gently on the silk sheets, voice a low growl. “Don’t you fucking give up, Penelope. You’re mine—to live and die for.”
His words were both command and plea, laced with something raw—obsession, not love—a twisted need to keep me alive.
He crouched beside me, scanning the gauze on my legs with sharp, meticulous movements, running his fingers over the bandages as if reading the state of my injuries by touch alone.
Then he placed a hand lightly on my sternum, feeling the tremor in my breath, listening for the wheeze that might betray a failing lung.
“Stay with me.” He ordered, low and clipped, his voice a knife-edge of command.
He was on the phone again, voice sharp, issuing orders. “Let him in. Straight to my room.” His hand found mine, thumb brushing my knuckles—a possessive, chilling gesture that sent shivers through me.
The door opened, footsteps heavy.
Voices blurred—Dmitri’s, another’s, urgent but distant.
A needle pierced my arm, pain faint, body numb.
Was this how I’d die? Trapped in Dmitri’s cage, his ring burning against my skin, my family a distant, unreachable dream?
Darkness closed in, relentless, and I surrendered, my last thought his face—demon, savior, captor.
Chapter 13
PENELOPE
My eyes fluttered open, the world swimming into focus, the familiar silk sheets and gold-trimmed walls of Dmitri’s bedroom a stark reminder of my captivity.
My chest ached, the ghost of my asthma attack lingering, my legs throbbing from the airstrip’s brutal scrapes.
I sat up swiftly, my heart lurching as I realized I was no longer in my jeans and shirt. A thin silk gown clung to my skin, its fabric cool but revealing, and—God, no—I wasn’t wearing a bra or panties.
My breath caught, panic surging.
Had Dmitri touched me while I was unconscious? Violated me to claim the child he demanded?
I jumped from the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold marble, my hands clutching the gown to cover myself, when the door opened.
