Page 51 of Darkest Oblivion

Relief flooded me—God, he’d agreed.

My chest caved, breath shallow, his broad back taunting me with the ghost of the boy I once loved—now a monster.

“So if I agree to have your baby...” my voice shook, “...will you let me go after I give birth?”

His fingers froze on the keyboard, his entire body tensing, shoulders rigid.

“You are bound to me forever, Penelope,” he said, his voice fervent—less a statement than an oath carved into stone.

Slowly, he turned, those icy eyes locking onto mine, his tailored suit cutting the image of power—but it was the hunger in his gaze that froze me.

“You became mine when I was nineteen and you were fifteen. Do you understand? Mine. The moment I laid eyes on you, you stopped belonging to yourself.”

His chest rose and fell sharply, his words unspooling like chains.

“You will remain mine until death. I don’t care if you want it. I don’t care if you hate me. You’re stuck with me—my wife, my ring on your finger, my blood in your veins when you bear my child.”

His voice dropped lower, burning with a twisted devotion.

“Only death can part us. Not distance, not divorce, not God Himself. So stop dreaming of freedom, Penelope. That dream doesn’t exist anymore.”

His words dripped with possession, each syllable a chain.

My chest caved.

“As long as you keep me here against my will,” I said, my voice trembling but defiant, “I swear I’ll never let you touch me.”

He slammed his laptop shut, the sound sharp, and stood, striding toward the bed, his boots silent but menacing.

“You keep saying that,” he muttered, stalking toward me, boots silent, eyes lit with fire. “As if you don’t secretly crave me.”

He loomed over me, his shadow swallowing mine, the sheer force of his presence pressing down until my lungs forgot how to work. Heat rolled off his body in waves.

My pulse thundered, every nerve sparking at his nearness.

“No, I don’t crave you, Dmitri,” I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart. “Not this monster you’ve become.”

“Is that so?” he asked, bending closer, his hands pinning my wrists to the bed, his face inches from mine, his breath hot, his sandalwood scent intoxicating.

My body betrayed me, leaning toward him, my lips parting, drawn to his toxic pull.

His lips brushed my throat—soft.

A moan escaped, unbidden, the tension electric, my skin tingling.

Shame seared me.

He lifted a hand, caressing my hair, his fingers trailing down my neck, to my shoulder, then brushing the neckline of my gown, his touch igniting a fire I hated.

His lips found my neck, slow and deliberate, each brush a brand against my skin.

A treacherous sound slipped from me—a breathy moan I hadn’t meant to give—as my body arched toward him, my breasts brushing his chest, betraying every ounce of resistance I clung to.

It wasn’t a choice—it was a reflex, a treachery written into my body, surrendering to his heat even as my mind screamed to resist.

My nipples hardened under the thin silk, my breath quickening as his hand grazed my arm, then settled on my breast, circling gently, the fabric a cruel barrier.

He circled my other breast, his touch maddening, and I let out a helpless whimper.