Page 66 of Darkest Oblivion
I stepped forward, heart hammering, and crouched before him. My hands shook as I lifted the torn edge of his shirt.
Stitches crisscrossed his abdomen, angry red wounds stitched too tight, flesh inflamed where bullets had torn through him.
My throat tightened, the sight of it twisting guilt deeper.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my hand hovering just shy of touching his skin. “I thought you were cheating. The lipstick.The hickeys. Seraphina. You made me believe it. You wanted me to.”
His gaze didn’t soften. It hardened.
“Take your hands off me,” he rumbled, his voice low and dangerous, the command thrumming with possessive fury.
Even bleeding, even broken, Dmitri exuded the kind of dominance that filled every inch of the room.
And in that moment, I realized—he wouldn’t kill me. Not yet. Death was too merciful for what he had planned.
“No.” The word snapped from me before I could swallow it.
I lifted his shirt higher, ignoring his glare.
That’s when I saw it. Ink. Small, delicate, just above his hip—two stars, perfectly precise, etched in black against his skin.
My breath hitched.
A memory tore through me like a blade.
We were fifteen, lying on a blanket in my backyard under a velvet summer sky.
Fireflies flickered in the dark, the air sweet with cut grass. Dmitri’s hand brushed mine—casual, but enough to make my heart stutter. His voice had been soft then, teasing.
“See those two, right there?” His finger traced the air, pointing to a constellation only he could see. “That’s us, Penelope. Two stars, burning brighter than the rest. One day, I’ll pull them down for you, keep them close so you’ll never feel alone.”
I had laughed, shoving at his shoulder, though my chest was tight, fluttering.
And when he leaned in, pressing his lips to my temple, whispering promises I was too young and too willing to believe—I thought forever was ours.
“These stars...” My voice trembled as I hovered over the tattoo, my fingers shaking. “You drew this... for me?”
Dmitri’s eyes darkened, a storm swirling inside them.
His hand shot out, clamping around my wrist—not violent, but immovable, pulling his shirt back down.
“I inked you onto my skin to keep you close to my heart,” he said, his voice low and raw.
His jaw tightened. “Even when I hated you, I couldn’t erase you.”
The words crushed me, even as I hated them.
He pushed to his feet with a sharp wince, one hand pressed to his stitched side.
His broad frame loomed, his shoulders squared in stubborn refusal to show frailty.
He moved toward the bedroom like a king refusing to bow.
I followed, my guilt clawing.
Watching him lower himself onto the bed, his breath uneven, his body rigid with pain, I forced my voice steady.
“I want to speak to my parents.”
