Page 57 of Twisted Addiction

His cedarwood and leather scent enveloped me, suffocating in its intensity, sparking a heat that coiled low in my belly.

“When I’m done with you, Penelope,” he growled against my lips, his voice dripping with obsession, “you’ll never speak of leaving again.”

“You think you can erase me with ink on paper? You’ll remember who you belong to—here, now, in every life after this one.” His words were a vow, dark and possessive, sending a shiver down my spine as his hands roamed my body, tugging at the hem of my blouse.

I yielded, my skin burning under his touch as he peeled my blouse away, his fingers deftly unbuttoning my skirt, the fabric pooling at my feet.

The sexual tension was electric, our kisses frantic, as if we were both starved for this connection, this raw collision of desire and anger.

I reached for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, desperate to feel his skin against mine, but he caught my wrists, pinning them gently but firmly.

“Tell me,” Dmitri said, his tone deceptively soft, trembling with barely leashed rage, “who thought they could help you crawl out of my cage?”

The fire between us sputtered and died instantly.

I met his gaze, breath shallow, anger flaring. “Alexei,” I said, voice hard but trembling.

“Alexei,” he repeated slowly, his blue eyes narrowing until they could pierce bone. “Do you understand what you’re doing, Penelope? Trusting him... trusting anyone over me?”

I laughed, sharp and bitter, shoving against his chest.

“Trust? You’ve built this prison around me, and I won’t stay just because you claim it’s yours. If someone can help me crawl out of this cage you built, I’ll take it.”

He didn’t move at first—just stared. His expression was blank, but the stillness was deceptive, coiled like a predator about to strike.

Then he took two slow steps back.

The distance between us felt like a punishment.

I slid off the pew, my legs unsteady as I straightened my blouse, humiliation clawing its way up my throat. He’d played me—used the heat, the want, the illusion of tenderness—to remind me that he could take what he wanted, when he wanted, and I’d always yield.

He reached into his jacket, pulling out his phone with deliberate calm, his eyes never leaving mine. “You’re here,” he said, voice dangerous, “so you’ll stay. Don’t move. Wait until I’m done. And do not test my patience.”

“Done with what?”

He turned away, facing the statue of his mother once more, bowing his head as though in prayer—or penance.

The candlelight caught the sharp lines of his face, and for a moment he looked less like a man and more like an executioner seeking forgiveness.

Rage surged, hot and blinding.

I spun on my heel, my footsteps echoing across the marble, each one a defiance. I was done being toyed with. Done being kept. But before I could reach the ancient oak doors, they groaned open from the outside.

Giovanni stepped in first, his face grim. Behind him came another man—a stranger, dressed in a drab oak-colored coat, his demeanor clinical. The faint scent of antiseptic drifted from the small case in his hands.

I froze.

Dmitri’s voice came from behind me, absolute—deadly calm.

“The procedure will be done here. It will be quick. And you won’t feel a thing.”

For a moment, I didn’t understand. The words didn’t connect—until they did.

My heart stopped.

I turned slowly, my voice breaking as the truth hit like ice. “What did you just say?”

Dmitri didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His silence was the confirmation.