Page 78 of Darkest Oblivion
He pressed closer, hand sliding lower along the small of my back, guiding my hips, drawing me into a rhythm that felt intimate, invasive, and utterly his.
The song ended, and we both stopped moving, bodies still close, his arms around me. He danced like no man should—fluid, confident, every step precise. I hated myself for it, but a part of me had enjoyed the dance, had felt the old pull of the boy I’d loved in the sway of his body.
Without a word, he led me across the club, past the glittering crowd, the thump of bass shaking the floor beneath us.
Women writhed on stages, giving lap dances or moving in ways meant to seduce every leering gaze.
Dmitri sank into a plush leather chair, his posture perfect, eyes glinting with unspoken command.
“Give me a lap dance, milaya,” he said, voice growling.
“I’m not a stripper,” I snapped, cheeks flaming with anger and indignation.
My curves, my rolls... he knows I’m nothing like those slim women on stage, practiced in giving lap dances. Is he trying to mock me? To humiliate me, flaunt me here in front of everyone, make me feel small and exposed in this club?
“Penelope,” he said, slow, deliberate. “Give. Your. Husband. A lap dance.”
“No.” I spat it out, stepping back, feeling the weight of every eye in the club on me.
My pulse thundered with fury, humiliation, and a stubborn fire I couldn’t extinguish.
“Okay.” He lifted a hand, a subtle, commanding gesture, and a woman stepped forward—a sleek, practiced machine of temptation.
Her crimson bikini barely clung to her skin, fishnet stockings tight along long legs.
She straddled him, moving with precision, grinding to the music as though trained to seduce the universe itself.
My chest constricted, a knot twisting in my stomach, a mix of rage and heat I couldn’t control.
But his eyes... they stayed on me. Not her. Every flicker of amusement, every twitch of satisfaction in his gaze burned into me, a challenge, a provocation.
I snapped. Something inside me shattered.
I grabbed a nearby bottle of wine, the cool glass grounding me as I lunged forward. I swung it at her thigh, not aiming to injure, but to disrupt, to reclaim control.
The bottle clattered across the floor, wine spilling in dark rivulets. The dancer stumbled, losing her rhythm, glancing at me with wide, startled eyes.
The club froze, all eyes on us, but Dmitri didn’t move.
He leaned back, lips curling into a dark, knowing smirk, eyes glinting with amusement and something darker—ownership, satisfaction, control.
“So...” His voice sliced through the silence, low and mocking. “Will you give me the lap dance now, milaya?”
“Fuck you,” I mouthed, storming through the crowd, my body trembling with adrenaline—and something else I hated myself for feeling.
I collapsed onto a bench in a shadowed corner, my face buried in my hands.
What had come over me? I’d never been violent, never lost control like this. And yet the thought of him with her—her body on his, her hands where mine should’ve been—had ignited something I couldn’t tame.
Was this jealousy? Obsession? Desire? I hated him, I told myself. He was my captor, my tormentor, a monster who wanted me broken. And yet, my pulse throbbed with the toxic, undeniable pull of him.
I felt sick—for the woman I’d struck, for the reckless violence I’d unleashed—but more so for myself. For the way my heart still reached, helplessly, for the boy Dmitri had been. Every misstep, every impulsive act—the planted device, the shattered bottle—sprang from the terror of losing him, even as I hated what he’d become.
I leaned back against the bench, shivering, rage and shame coiling together.
I was caught in his storm, a prisoner not only of his world, but of the part of me that still wanted the boy I’d loved.
The truth cut deeper than any wound: I couldn’t stand the idea of him being anyone else’s, and that was a poison I could neither swallow nor spit out.
