Page 2 of Twisted Addiction
They moved with the heavy inevitability of executioners, eyes glinting like shards of ice. My stomach lurched, bile rising in my throat—the kind of primal terror that screamsthese men don’t see you as human, only prey.
I froze.
Another figure stood beyond them—how had I not seen him before?
Antonio.
At the foot of the bed, his lean frame lounged with the ease of a man in control, a cigar dangling between his fingers, smoke coiling upward like a serpent tasting the air.
The sight of him ripped the breath from my lungs, my body seizing with a terror colder than the ropes had ever been.
His cruel smirk was a blade, and when his eyes caught mine, glinting with malice, I felt it—that suffocating certainty that I hadn’t escaped anything. I’d only stumbled deeper into his nightmare.
The two men bent down, shadows swallowing their hulking forms as their rough hands reached for me. Instinct screamed to recoil, to curl into myself, but the chains bit deeper when I tried to flinch away.
My heart hammered as their fingers worked at the buckles, each brush of their skin against mine making my stomach churn with revulsion.
The scrape of metal against metal filled the silence, every click sounding like the cock of a gun.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself not to scream, not to give them that satisfaction. When the first shackle snapped open, blood rushed to my hand in a painful surge, my skin raw and burning where the iron had gnawed into it.
One by one, the restraints fell away, leaving angry welts and trickles of blood in their wake. I yanked my hands back the instant I was able, rubbing at the sores with frantic fingers, my breath uneven, my chest tight with the terror of how close their touch had been.
My ankles throbbed as the final chain clattered to the floor, freedom coming not as relief but as another wave of dread.
Because I was loose now—loose, but still in Antonio’s den.
The two hulking men stepped back without a word, retreating to the corners like obedient dogs, their cold eyes never leaving me.
Antonio puffed on his cigar, the glowing tip flaring as he drew in slow and deep, then exhaled a heavy cloud of smoke that curled through the air and stung my eyes.
He watched me through the haze, like a predator savoring the twitch of prey caught in his claws.
“You’re nothing but a vulture, Antonio,” I rasped, forcing steel into my trembling voice. “Picking at scraps that were never yours.”
My pulse thundered in my ears, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. “Kidnapping me won’t make you powerful. It just makes you a desperate little tyrant.”
He exhaled smoke in a slow curl, eyes glittering. “Your father sold you to me, whale. And I would have collected everydebt. Every scream. Every tear. But your Dmitri Volkov—ah, he couldn’t stomach the thought. He voided it. Ripped away my rights to you.”
His smile darkened. “Tell me, does it sting that the only reason you’re free of me... is because another man claimed you first?”
I forced a laugh, sharp. “Claimed, sold, caged—it doesn’t matter. At least Dmitri doesn’t reek of desperation like you do.”
Antonio’s smirk twisted, his voice a hiss. “Trust me, whale, Dmitri is drowning in it. Why else would he bleed half his empire and scorch a dozen alliances just to tear up the contract that bound you to me? The entire underworld still talks about it—Volkov sacrificing power for a woman he swears he despises. That, Penelope, is desperation.”
His words struck like a slap, confusion tangling with a flicker of relief.
Dmitri had gone to such ruthless lengths to sever the contract binding me to Antonio—something even my father hadn’t been able to undo.
But why? Why would the man who mocked me, broke me, bleed for me in ways my own blood never had?
Antonio’s phone beeped, slicing through the silence.
He glanced at the screen, and for a fleeting second, the mask slipped—hesitation flickered across his face, a shadow of reluctance, as though he wished the game hadn’t twisted this way. But when his eyes lifted back to me, the cold arrogance returned. He shoved the phone into his pocket and jerked his chin toward the door.
“Let’s go,” he muttered, striding out, his tone edged with impatience—like a man forced into a move he hadn’t planned, yet had no choice but to play.
I followed, though my steps faltered, my bare feet cold against the stone floor.
