Page 37 of Darkest Oblivion

I lay down, curling into myself.

His words lingered, my insecurities a storm in my head—heavy, unremarkable, a burden on the eye.

They cut deeper because he was my husband, because I had once loved him.

“We’re attending a ball tomorrow, 8 PM,” he said flatly, breaking the silence. “Be on your best behavior.”

No answer left my lips—only the hollow throb of my heart.

Moments later, tears streamed silently, soaking the pillow.

The pain was too much—his hatred, body-shaming, the loss of my freedom. I’d thought I could fight him, defy his control, but now I wasn’t sure. He was a monster, capable of killing me, as he’d said. Yet his obsession—his vow to keep me forever—felt like a twisted promise, not just a threat.

Dmitri Volkov, how long do you think you can keep me here? I’ll escape—maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but I will.

I cried myself to sleep, resolve flickering but unbroken, the ball tomorrow a new battlefield I’d face, whether I was ready or not.

Chapter 10

PENELOPE

I jolted awake, my heart hammering, the silk sheets twisted around my legs like a noose.

The room glowed with the soft amber of dawn.

The digital clock blinked 7:00 PM, its red numbers glaring like a warning.

Dmitri stood across the room.

Already dressed in a tailored black suit, every line was precise, his silver cufflinks catching the light, the wolf-etched ring gleaming on his finger, a crimson tie pin stabbing the dark fabric like blood on snow.

His dark hair slicked back with ruthless care.

He looked every bit the predator cloaked in elegance, and his icy blue eyes were fixed not on me but on the phone in his hand.

Why hadn’t he woken me?

My chest tightened, last night’s wounds reopening in my mind. His body-shaming words—heavy, unremarkable, a burden on the eye—echoed like poison.

My throat ached with the memory, humiliation gnawing beneath my ribs.

The second day of my twenty-fifth birthday, and I was nothing more than a pawn on his board

“I’ll be waiting outside.” Dmitri’s voice sliced through my thoughts. “You have thirty minutes to get dressed.”

His focus stayed on his phone, but his words were stone.

I sat up, the duvet slipping from my shoulders, and swallowed hard against the lump rising in my throat. My voice trembled when I spoke, but I forced the words out anyway.

“Grant me one call,” I said, my grip on the sheets tightening. “To my parents. They deserve to know I’m alive.”

For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.

He didn’t answer immediately—didn’t even move.

The silence pressed in on me like iron bars, every second stretching, twisting.

Finally, Dmitri looked up, his gaze assessing, as if he were measuring how much of myself I was willing to beg away.