Page 53 of Twisted Addiction

“Guess you’ll find out,” he added, leaning back in his seat as if watching me walk into a lion’s den was a casual pastime.

I stepped out into the cold night, the air sharp against my skin. The street was deathly silent, as if the city itself were holding its breath.

Every step toward the cathedral echoed like a warning.

The massive oak doors loomed before me, carved with symbols of vengeance and poison.

One showed a hooded figure driving a dagger through a heart engulfed in flames. Another—a serpent coiled around a chalice, fangs bared. Each detail whispered menace, and my stomach twisted.

The hinges groaned when I pushed the door open.

Inside, the hall swallowed sound: polished marble floors, flickering candlelight, and shadows pooling in the corners. The scent of wax and old stone filled the space.

And there he was—Dmitri. Broad shoulders rigid, still as a statue, his gaze fixed on a scarred stone woman at the far end. Her face was serene, but the marks across her chest and abdomen made her feel alive in her suffering.

I stopped beside him, letting my shoulder brush his. He didn’t flinch.

We stood in silence, the weight of the moment stretching taut between us. Finally, he broke it, his voice a low grunt.

“You came,” he said, voice controlled, yet carrying an edge that made the hair on my neck stand.

“I did,” I replied, forcing steadiness into my voice despite the coil of fear tightening in my chest. “What... are we looking at?”

His gaze didn’t leave the statue. “Someone who survived pain they didn’t choose,” he said softly, almost a whisper.

“Why are you here?”

I shrugged, keeping my eyes on the statue. “To keep you company.”

He turned slowly, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine, his face a mask of restrained intensity. “I don’t need your company, Penelope.”

“I know,” I said softly, meeting his gaze, unflinching despite the storm brewing in my chest. “But I’m here anyway.”

“Go home,” he said, his tone clipped, a command that brooked no argument.

“No,” I countered, glancing back at the statue, its scars stark under the candlelight. “We leave together. Besides... whose statue is this?”

He folded his hands behind his back, his posture rigid as he turned to the figure. “My mother,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent.

My heart sank, memories of my father’s stories flooding back—Dmitri’s childhood with abusive foster parents, the biological mother and father who’d searched for him, only to be lost to tragedy.

“I found her too late,” he continued, his eyes fixed on the statue, his voice heavy with unspoken grief. “Raped, beaten, murdered on a hill.”

The words hit like a physical blow, my chest tightening as I recalled the last time I’d heard him speak of her, his voice breaking with an anguished, “I’m sorry, mama.”

Was he carrying the weight of her death, blaming himself for failing to save her?

A silence followed, so thick it hurt to breathe.

I turned to him, my voice barely audible. “And you built this for her?”

His jaw flexed. “No,” he said. “I built it for what’s left of me.”

Slowly, almost against my will, my gaze drifted back to the statue.

The scars etched across her marble chest seemed almost deliberate—marks of suffering preserved for eternity. My hand lifted before I could think, fingers brushing over the cool stone, tracing the faint ridges.

“She looks... peaceful,” I whispered. “Even after everything.”