Page 38 of Twisted Addiction

He thinks he can end this—end my child—tomorrow? Not a chance.

Panic roared hotter than pain. In his world I’m tiny; my protest doesn’t even make a sound. Still, I pressed my palms to my belly, as if my hands alone could shield it.

Hot tears spilled over, falling onto my trembling hands.

And then, almost in a trance, I got up. My body moved on instinct, numb and hollow, until I reached the bathroom.

The marble floor was cold under my bare feet. I turned on the shower, the sound of rushing water filling the silence.

When I stepped under it, the warmth hit me—and I broke.

The sobs tore out of me, raw and unrestrained.

I pressed my forehead against the tiles, water mixing with tears until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

For the first time since marrying Dmitri, I let myself grieve—not just for the child I might lose, but for the woman I used to be before him.

The one who still believed in choice, in love, in life that belonged to her.

THAT NIGHT, SLEEP WASa war I couldn’t win.

Every time I closed my eyes, the nightmare found me again—unrelenting, merciless.

Uncle Rocco’s laughter, Uncle Carlo’s breath hot against my skin, their hands dragging into the dark. And behind them, always, that third figure—taller, broader, faceless yet familiar. I never saw his face, but every time... I swore the shape of him felt like my father.

The betrayal in his presence gutted me anew every time, as if I were reliving the moment my childhood died.

I tried to chase the images away—to think of the race, the wind, the neon blur of freedom—but the nightmare was greedy. It clung to me, burrowed deep, until I woke gasping, tangled in silk sheets that felt like restraints.

The room was dark, quiet except for the steady thud of my pulse in my ears. I turned on my side, staring at the faint outline of the curtains billowing in the night breeze.

My mind was still trapped somewhere between sleep and memory—Rocco’s laughter fading into the whisper of wind against the glass.

And then—warmth.

A shift on the mattress. The faint scent of cedarwood and smoke—familiar, male, grounding. My body went rigid before my mind caught up.

“Dmitri?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just sat there on the edge of the bed, his silhouette broad and immovable against the moonlight spilling in through the balcony doors.

My heart stuttered. “What are you doing here?”

His voice, when it came, was low—roughened by something I couldn’t name. “I heard you screaming again. Was it the nightmare?”

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath.

My voice came out smaller than I intended. “It was nothing,” I whispered, dragging the blanket higher. “Just a dream. It’s over.”

My voice wavered on the last word, betraying the lie.

The air between us thickened.

He didn’t move to touch me, but his presence was suffocating—too close, too real. My hands fisted in the sheets as I tried to gather myself, to build walls where none existed.

“I don’t need your pity,” I whispered.

“Good,” he said. “Because that’s not what this is.”