Page 28 of Darkest Oblivion

The front door.

It swung inward with slow, inevitable grace.

And there he was.

Dmitri Volkov.

He stepped inside, his presence a storm rolling into the room. Even dressed in black casuals, no suit, no armor, he carried the same suffocating weight.

My heart lurched painfully.

He wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, the top few buttons teasing a flash of bronzed skin. His tailored trousers clung perfectly, his dark hair slightly mussed, as though impatient fingers had tangled in it.

But it wasn’t the shirt, or the hair, or even the way he owned the space with his sheer presence that froze me.

It was the hickey.

Dark red. Raw. Unmistakable.

Staining his neck like a brand.

My gaze dropped lower—to his hand. He was sliding his platinum wedding band back onto his finger, the etched wolf’s head catching the chandelier’s glow.

My breath hitched.

Rage and betrayal crashed over me in a tidal wave so violent it left me trembling.

He had shackled me with vows I never wanted, dragged me to Italy—and now, on our wedding night, he’d gone to another woman?

The hypocrisy burned like acid.

He couldn’t even keep his own vows?

But beneath the fury, a sharp stab of something else pierced me. Something uglier. Jealousy.

Why did it matter? Why did my stomach twist at the thought of his mouth on someone else’s skin? I hated him. Didn’t I?

“Who is she?” My voice cracked like a whip through the air.

My fists curled at my sides as I forced myself to meet his gaze.

He didn’t stop moving at first, striding toward a side room with infuriating calm, as if I were nothing more than background noise.

Then—he paused. His back to me. A slow, deliberate turn.

His icy eyes found me, and amusement glinted in their depths—cruel.

“Seraphina,” he said, his voice velvet over blades. “Slim. Graceful. Desired. Everything you’ll never be.”

The words landed like daggers, slicing through every defense I’d ever built.

My throat tightened, my heart splintering.

I’d always carried my curves with a quiet pride, armor against a world that tried to shame me.

But under his scorn, I felt heavy. Wrong. Unworthy.

My cheeks burned hot, a toxic cocktail of anger and shame flooding me.