Page 99 of Twisted Addiction
I moved closer, the steady beeping of her heart monitor the only thing keeping me anchored.
For the first time in years, I didn’t feel like a man of power or a husband or a king. I felt like a murderer waiting for his sentence.
The doctor strode in briskly, as if the nurses had just reported my breach of protocol—walking into a comatose patient’s room without warning—but this was my wife.
His eyes flicked from me to her motionless form, calculating.
“Mr. Volkov, hospital protocol—she needs space. Any sudden—”
“Cut the bullshit,” I snapped, my voice dangerous. “I’m staying with my wife. Tell me—exactly—what she needs to come out of this coma. Don’t leave out a single detail.” My chest tightened, my fingers twitching, because just watching her like this was breaking me.
The doctor swallowed, straightening, meeting my gaze with professional caution. “Mr. Volkov... she’s lost a significant amount of blood. Her hemoglobin is dangerously low, and she’s febrile. We’re monitoring for shock. She’s stabilized for now, but she’s fragile. Any abrupt movement... any stress... could worsen her condition.”
I bent over her, ignoring the sterile smell of antiseptic.
My hand hovered, trembling slightly, over hers, afraid to touch too firmly.
“Fragile?” I growled under my breath. “Fragile doesn’t cover it. You realize I could lose her?”
“She’s stable for now,” the doctor said cautiously.
“For now,” I echoed, my voice dropping low and dangerous. “For now doesn’t mean forever. If she dies here—if a single mistake is made—you will answer to me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Volkov.”
My eyes, icy and unyielding, scanned the room, making it clear that I wasn’t bluffing.
I sank onto the edge of the bed, careful not to touch her too roughly.
My chest ached with guilt. “I went too far,” I whispered, barely audible. “I pushed you into the dark... I let my hatredblind me. I—” My voice cracked, and I forced it back into a growl. “I will fix this. I swear to you, Penelope, I will fix this.”
Her hand twitched under the sheet, a small, almost imperceptible motion, and I reached for it instantly.
My fingers brushed hers, and a shiver ran through me.
“Don’t you dare leave me,” I whispered, the words torn between a command and a prayer.
My thumb traced the curve of her knuckles, cold against my burning skin.
She was mine—my obsession, my undoing, my only salvation—and I’d nearly killed the very thing that kept me alive.
Her stillness gutted me.
I exhaled hard, my hands trembling as I watched her the way I always had, even when she never noticed.
I wasn’t a husband anymore; I was the beast that had built her cage and then begged her not to die inside it.
Every faint beep of the monitor, every shallow breath, every twitch beneath her eyelids carved me open a little more.
I couldn’t sit on the bed—I didn’t deserve to. So I slid to the floor, my back against the metal frame, gripping the edge like a penitent clutching a cross.
My voice came out low, raw, almost reverent.
“I’m here,” I murmured, pressing my forehead to the mattress beside her hand. “I won’t lock you away again. Ever. You hear me?” My voice trembled, breaking around the edges. “You’re mine. You stay. You breathe. You live.”
Chapter 22
PENELOPE
