Page 9 of Darkest Oblivion
For a long moment, I stood there, my breath shallow, fighting the urge to crumble. Then, with trembling hands, I pulled the flap aside and stepped inside.
A low golden glow bathed the tent, cast by an ornate floor lamp in the corner, its brass stem etched with snarling wolves.
At the far end sat a man in a chair that wasn’t merely a chair—it was a throne, carved from blackened oak, its armrests tipped with silver wolf heads.
Dmitri Volkov.
The devil himself.
My lungs seized, as if the air had thinned to nothing.
He didn’t simply sit. He ruled.
One arm draped over the armrest, his posture deceptively relaxed, as if the entire world already belonged to him.
His suit clung to broad shoulders, midnight black, his icy blue eyes locked on me, unblinking, merciless.
This was no neighbor, no friend from summer afternoons with lemonade and laughter. This was a king carved from shadows, the devil men whispered about in fear.
This was a monster who’d returned to collect on a promise I’d been foolish enough to make.
“Dmitri...” I whispered, the name trembling from my lips, weighted with shock and memories I wished I could burn.
Fifteen years old, barefoot on the Romano porch. His laugh warm as he leaned back, sipping the lemonade my mother had made. His blue eyes had been bright then, almost boyish. “You’ll marry me at twenty-five, right, Penelope?” he’d teased, flashing that infuriating grin.
I’d laughed, swatting him with my book. “Sure, if you’re still this sweet.”
But the man before me was anything but sweet.
Another memory clawed its way forward—his hand sneaking mine a cupcake at my fifteenth birthday, the chocolate frosting smudging my thumb.
His fingers had brushed mine, warm, tentative, his smile shy but genuine.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he’d whispered, his voice low and conspiratorial, as if the stolen cupcake was a treasure. “It’s just for you, Penelope.”
For a moment, he’d been the boy who saw me when no one else did.
Now, just two weeks from my twenty-fifth birthday, that boy was dead. In his place sat a man carved from ice and iron, his sharp jaw rigid, his eyes glacial.
“Dmitri,” I breathed, searching for him, thehimI remembered. My voice softened, aching. “You’ve changed so much.”
He didn’t move.
The silence was more brutal than any words. His fist flexed against the carved armrest, the leather of his glove creaking with restrained violence.
The tent pressed in on me, heavy with gun oil, cigar smoke, and his suffocating presence.
“Say something,” I demanded, my voice breaking sharp against the stillness. “Those rumors—about killing your parents, carving their names into their ashes—they’re not true, right?”
He finally rose, every movement fluid yet coiled with lethal intent, his black suit cutting a ruthless silhouette.
His eyes raked over me, merciless, stripping me bare until I felt my pulse thundering in my throat.
“There’s a chopper outside,” he said, his voice smooth but venom-laced, circling me like a predator testing the edge of fear. “It’s bound for Italy. I could drag you aboard, lock you in my estate, and chain you there as my possession for the rest of your pitiful life.”
“Dmitri...” My whisper cracked, a trembling plea that betrayed the storm inside me.
“Not another word,” he growled, voice low but edged with fury.
