Page 68 of Darkest Oblivion

I stepped back, spine pressed to cold marble, fear clawing at my lungs.

“No,” I managed, my voice trembling but sharp with defiance. “I won’t strip for you.”

The faintest curl touched his lips—something between amusement and a threat.

He pulled a small remote from his pocket, pressed it with a sharp click. Behind me, the art room door slammed shut, the metallic lock snapping into place with a sound that echoed like a gunshot.

“You enjoy running, Penelope,” he said, his tone deliberate. His eyes glinted with that unholy fire. “But every time you thought you escaped, it was because I allowed it. Not this time.”

My fists clenched at my sides.

Rage burned through the fear. I won’t go down without a fight.

“You can lock me in, hurt me, hate me—but I’ll never be yours. Not like this.” I spat, though my voice cracked on the edge.

His smile darkened, his presence filling every corner of the room until it suffocated me.

He took a slow step closer, then another, moving like a storm gathering force.

“You fight beautifully, Penelope. Like a caged wolf gnawing off its own paw. But tell me—what’s left of you when there’snowhere left to run?” He whispered, eyes burning with a dark fire.

“You can hate me, curse me, even pray for my death—but you’ll never erase me. I live here.” He pressed his palm flat against my chest, right over my pounding heart. “I live in the blood that rushes through you every time you think of escape. In every tear you fight not to shed.”

His eyes burned—not only with rage, but with a possession so absolute it made me tremble.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing my temple, soft enough to feel like a caress, sharp enough to feel like a brand.

“I am in you, Penelope. And you—” his voice dipped lower, lethal in its intimacy, “you are already mine. Body. Soul. Even your hate belongs to me.”

Chapter 18

PENELOPE

“For the last time—strip,” Dmitri commanded.

His voice was guttural and commanding, each word brimming with the kind of dominance that made the walls themselves seem to flinch.

“No.” My voice cracked but didn’t falter.

I lifted my chin, nails biting into my palms as if pain alone could hold my ground. “I won’t.”

I hated him—for twisting the boy who kissed my temple and called me treasure into this beast who now wielded power over my breath.

His lips curved into a dark smirk, “Okay.”

The word slithered through the air like a death sentence.

He moved then, a blur of brutal grace, the stitches across his abdomen tugging but never slowing him.

I tried to bolt—bare feet skidding against cold marble—but he was faster. His hand clamped around my wrist, the grip iron, inescapable. With a brutal twist, he spun me, yanking my arms behind my back.

The sharp click of metal rang out like a gunshot. Smooth, black leather cuffs tightened around my wrists, deceptively soft but unyielding in their grip.

Panic surged. I thrashed, kicking, but his strength caged me like steel.

“You monster! Let me go!” I spat, voice sharp with defiance though it quivered under the weight of his control.

He hummed low in his throat, a sound almost amused, almost tender, but carrying the weight of absolute possession.