Page 107 of Twisted Addiction
Pain radiated outward—not from my asthma, though my lungs still screamed with every breath—but from the raw, relentless heartbreak: knowing that the man who had imprisoned me, tormented me, who had been my obsession and my ruin, had done this all along.
The cruelty was surgical.
The man I had loved, feared, and endured had mapped every move, manipulated every lie, and sent his loyal shadow, Giovanni, to enforce it.
Men who killed without conscience, men who lied as easily as they breathed—and I had been so foolish, so painfully naive, to trust either of them.
I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, feeling the dull, spreading ache beneath my ribs.
I hated him—God, I should’ve hated him—but love doesn’t die cleanly. It rots, clings, refuses to let go even when it poisons you.
Despite everything—his cruelty, his betrayal, that pitch-black room where I’d gasped for breath and begged for air—I still loved him. And worse than that, I carried his child.
A secret. A heartbeat he didn’t know existed.
Would he have locked me away if he’d known?
Would he have spared me if he realized he’d almost killed his own child? I doubted it. Dmitri’s hatred ran too deep, carved from wounds my family had created. I was his punishment and his obsession—his revenge wrapped in love.
A dark spark flared inside me.
I could hurt him before I left.
Twist the knife the way he’d twisted me.
He was obsessed with control—with the idea of owning me, body and soul. The thought of me with another man, especially one of his brothers, would drive him to madness. I could end him from the inside out with a single act.
The phone gleamed under the low lamplight, Alexei’s name burning on the screen. My thumb lingered above it, suspended between impulse and restraint.
The temptation was intoxicating—one call, one reckless night, and Dmitri Volkov would burn.
But I froze. The rational part of me clawed through the fury. If I acted now, I’d lose everything. He’d find out. He always did. And then freedom—so close I could almost taste it—would vanish.
Not yet. Not until I was gone.
A soft knock sounded at the door, followed by Giovanni’s calm voice. “Dinner’s ready, ma’am.”
I didn’t answer.
My body stayed rigid against the mattress, every muscle locked.
Hunger gnawed at me—I hadn’t eaten properly in days—but anger was stronger. It filled me, sustained me, burned hotter than any hunger or pain.
Giovanni lingered for a moment, maybe expecting a word, maybe waiting for me to break. I didn’t. I kept still, until his footsteps retreated down the hall.
I stared at the ceiling, the shadows shifting above me like ghosts, each tick of the clock dragging me closer to dawn. Closer to the flight. Closer to freedom.
Still, a part of me prayed Dmitri wouldn’t change his mind.
Because if he did—
I wasn’t sure if I’d have the strength to leave.
Another creak echoed through the room, heavier this time, and Dmitri stepped in.
A dark stain marred the bandage on his arm—the wound I’d inflicted—and still, he moved with a predator’s confidence, every step precise.
I turned my head, refusing to meet his gaze.
