Page 23 of Twisted Addiction
Penelope didn’t remember most of her past; how was that possible? The amnesia that shrouded her memories left gaps I couldn’t fill.
Did she remember how she’d gutted me all those years ago—how she’d ground my trust under her heel and left me bleeding, how she’d destroyed the fragile boy I’d been before hardening into this?
Was it her parents’ manipulation, turning her into a weapon against me, or had she acted willingly—indecently—laughing behind the mask?
Or was she still playing me now, that soft voice and wide-eyed innocence nothing but camouflage?
The questions crawled under my skin, but answers didn’t matter.
I wanted her here, eternally bound to me, a captive to both my rage and my all-consuming obsession.
She might not remember, but I did. I remembered everything.
And I would make her remember—inch by inch, until she was stripped of every mask. Rage or love, it didn’t matter.
I’d never apologize for it; She was mine to unmake, mine to rebuild. Mine.
She shifted in her sleep, rolling carelessly onto the contract, oblivious to its importance—the paper that could dictate the fate of our territory. But let it crumple; a mere document wasn’t worth disturbing her peace.
Then, a wince crossed her face, followed by another.
“Let go...” she mumbled, her voice a fragile whisper, her head thrashing slowly at first, then with growing agitation. “Let me go... please... don’t touch me... don’t... uncle, please...”
Her pleas escalated, her hands flailing as if warding off invisible assailants, her body twisting in torment.
I’d already slaughtered her uncles, but hearing her relive the horror made me wish I’d drawn out their suffering longer, made them beg as she did now.
I hesitated, torn—touching her in this volatile state could shatter her further. But when her mumbles crescendoed into a piercing scream, I couldn’t hold back.
I pulled the chair even closer, grasping her hands gently yet firmly, my thumbs stroking her skin in a bid to anchor her.
Her eyes snapped open, wide with terror, a raw scream tearing from her throat.
She yanked her hands free with surprising force, rattling me as she bolted upright. She stared at me, shock and trauma etching her features, as if still trapped in the nightmare’s grip.
Her gaze darted between her thighs, panic flaring as if fearing the dream had bled into reality, her breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps.
“Did you touch me while I slept?” Penelope’s voice cut through the air, sharp and trembling, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and accusation as she stared at me from the bed.
“No.” My reply was immediate, my gaze locked on hers to drive the truth home.
The very idea was abhorrent—repulsive in a way that twisted my gut.
I’d never touch her against her will, not then, not now, not ever.
She scrambled off the bed, her movements jerky, as if propelled by some primal instinct to flee.
She retreated to the far corner of the room, pressing her back against the wall, her arms curled tightly around herself like a shield.
Her body trembled, shivers racking her frame as she slid down to the floor, her knees buckling under the weight of whatever nightmare still clung to her mind.
The sight of her—so small, so fragile—stirred a dark, possessive ache in me, but I held back, my fists clenching at my sides.
“What was your dream about?” I asked, my voice low, though I already suspected the answer.
Her uncles’ names had spilled from her lips in that terrified mumble, conjuring images of the men I’d already reduced to bloody memories.
She let out a brittle laugh that wasn’t laughter at all.
