Page 81 of Twisted Addiction
His towering frame radiated a dangerous calm, that deceptive kind of stillness that hides the detonation beneath.
His blue eyes burned—icy and furious all at once—like someone who’d stared too long into hell and decided to bring a piece of it back with him.
Blood had seeped through the bandage on his arm, dark and glistening, a reminder of the bullet I’d fired in the cathedral.
And yet... he didn’t even flinch.
My fingers shook as I set the glass of water on the counter, its rim clinking softly.
The sound felt deafening in the stillness.
I searched his face—desperately—for something familiar. For the boy who once slipped me notes, who carved my name into an oak tree back in Brooklyn. But that boy was gone. Whatever he’d become now... it was my fault.
“By the time I reached the address the clerk gave me,” he said finally, his voice low, almost reverent in its rage, “all I found was my mother’s body.”
The words hit me like a strike to the ribs.
His tone was too steady.
His throat worked as he swallowed, his jaw tightening so hard I thought it might crack.
“They let me see her once,” he went on, eyes locking onto mine, daring me to look away. “Just once. She was alive when I got there, barely breathing. And then they took her from me. Do you know what they did to her, Penelope?”
My mouth went dry. “Dmitri...”
“They raped her.” The word came out raw, the syllables trembling with contained violence. “They tortured her. They left her broken. And then they killed her. Like she was nothing.”
The world tilted.
The refrigerator’s low hum filled the silence, and suddenly the room felt smaller, closing in around us.
I shook my head, my voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t know. I swear to God, Dmitri—I didn’t—”
“Don’t lie to me!” His shout cracked through the air, shattering the fragile composure I’d clung to.
The glass toppled from the counter, exploding across the tiles, water and shards skittering between us like tiny, glittering knives.
He stepped closer, the scent of blood and rain and rage enveloping me.
“You think I didn’t see the reports? The addresses, the transfers, the coded messages your father sent through your hotel staff?” His eyes burned into mine, and I could see the fracture there—the hurt beneath the fury. “You led them to her.”
“No!” I cried, my voice breaking. “I didn’t lead anyone—I was fifteen, Dmitri. I didn’t know—“
He laughed then—a sound so hollow, so unlike him, it made my stomach twist. “You didn’t know,” he repeated, quieter this time, almost to himself. “You didn’t know while I buried herwith my bare hands. You didn’t know while they told me she screamed my name before she died.”
Tears blurred my vision, but I didn’t move, couldn’t move.
The silence that followed was unbearable. His hand hovered at his side, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to reach for the gun—or for me. I didn’t know which would be worse.
He finally stepped back, just enough for air to exist between us again, though it still tasted like grief. “You were my light once, Penelope,” he murmured. “The one thing that made the world bearable. But now, every time I see you, all I can think of is the night they took her.”
I pressed a trembling hand to my mouth, trying to keep from sobbing.
His words weren’t shouted anymore—they were quiet, broken, the kind that cut deeper than any knife.
“Dmitri...”
“You ruined me, Penelope.”
