Page 55 of Twisted Addiction

“I never hated you.”

The words hit harder than any blow. They rang with truth, but it wasn’t comforting. It was terrifying.

“Then why?” I whispered. “Why keep me close just to break me?”

He exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. “Because even if you were there that night, you didn’t choose it. You were used. Like her.” His gaze lifted to the statue, to the scarred stone face of the woman who had birthed him. “You and she—both victims of someone else’s cruelty.”

My voice cracked. “Then tell me what I did. Tell me why you look at me like I’m a ghost you can’t bury.”

His eyes hardened again, closing the door on the brief glimpse of vulnerability. “Go home, Penelope,” he said, turning away. “I have work to do.”

“No,” I said, my voice breaking but defiant. “You don’t get to say something like that and walk away. I know you don’t want me here, but I’m not leaving you like this.”

He went still—too still.

“I won’t repeat myself,” he said at last, voice dangerous, the sound of a man holding back everything he wants to unleash. “Leave.”

The candles flickered. Wax bled down the altar steps like tears.

And for the first time, I wasn’t sure if the man before me was asking me to go... or silently begging me to save him.

His words stung, but I didn’t move. I was done running from his silence.

“If my presence disgusts you that much,” I said, forcing the words past the ache in my throat, “and you’ll never stop hating me—or even tell me why—then I can’t do this anymore.”

I reached into my bag, my hands trembling despite my resolve. The papers brushed my fingers—cold, thin, and heavy with finality.

When I pulled them out, the cathedral’s candlelight caught the embossed seal:Dissolution of Marriage Agreement.

“I’ll be called to testify soon,” I said, my tone deliberate. “They’ll ask whether you coerced me into this marriage.” My fingers tightened around the papers. “You know my answer. But you also know this ends the same way—so sign them now, and I’ll disappear from Lake Como before the court even speaks your name.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then his jaw flexed—once.

And before I could react, he turned, his hand shooting out to seize my wrist.

The papers slipped from my fingers, scattering like wounded doves across the marble floor.

In one swift motion, he pulled me against him, my body colliding with the solid wall of his chest.

The air between us disappeared—his heat, his fury, his scent of smoke and iron enveloping me.

“Divorce?” he growled, the word dragged from his throat like it cost him blood. His hand slid to my waist, holding me there, unyielding. “You think I’d let you go that easily?”

“Dmitri—”

He leaned closer, his mouth at my ear, every word searing the air between us.

“No,” he whispered, and the sound was worse than a shout. “You’re mine, Milaya. I’d burn Lake Como, the courts, the world itself—until there’s nothing left but you and me. No one takes you from me. Not even God.”

His voice shook—not with anger, but something far more dangerous: fear.

I swallowed hard, my pulse thrumming in the hollow of my throat. “You can’t keep me here if all you do is hate me,” I whispered, though the words came out fractured.

He laughed softly—bitter, broken. “You think this is hate?”

His hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers trembling as if fighting between destruction and mercy.

His forehead dipped until it brushed mine, his voice a rasp. “Hate doesn’t look like this. Hate doesn’t hurt like this.”