Chapter 13
PENELOPE
My eyes fluttered open, the world swimming into focus, the familiar silk sheets and gold-trimmed walls of Dmitri’s bedroom a stark reminder of my captivity.
My chest ached, the ghost of my asthma attack lingering, my legs throbbing from the airstrip’s brutal scrapes.
I sat up swiftly, my heart lurching as I realized I was no longer in my jeans and shirt. A thin silk gown clung to my skin, its fabric cool but revealing, and—God, no—I wasn’t wearing a bra or panties.
My breath caught, panic surging.
Had Dmitri touched me while I was unconscious? Violated me to claim the child he demanded?
I jumped from the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold marble, my hands clutching the gown to cover myself, when the door opened.
Dmitri stood there, his tailored suit pristine, his jaw set, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand, its rich aroma cutting through the room’s lavender scent.
“Take it,” he said, his voice low, his icy blue eyes unreadable but intense.
I hesitated, my hands trembling, then took the cup, its warmth grounding me.
“You... changed my clothes?” I asked, my voice shaking, fear and accusation lacing my words.
He stepped closer, his gaze narrowing. “I had a female maid bathe you and change your clothes. The doctor said you needed a warm bath.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, but a flicker of offense crossed his face, his lips tightening.
I swallowed, my heart pounding, needing certainty. “You didn’t... have sex with me?”
The words felt raw, exposing my vulnerability, my fear of his power over me.
His eyes flashed, genuinely affronted. “Have sex with you in your sleep? The fuck, Penelope?”
He stepped closer, looming, his sandalwood-and-steel scent overwhelming. “That’s a terrible thing to think of me.”
My cheeks burned, relief tangled with shame, but his cruelty lingered—his body-shaming, the inhaler taunt, his demand for a child, reducing me to nothing more than a womb.
He grabbed my arm, his grip firm but not bruising, and forced me to sit on the bed, the coffee nearly spilling, its dark liquid sloshing.
“You lack strength,” he said. “Drink.”
I gulped the coffee, its bitter warmth steadying me, and set the cup on the bedside table, its clink loud in the tense silence.
“You almost killed me,” I said, my voice steady despite the memory of his cruelty.
He walked to the velvet chair, sitting with that eerie composure. “And you ruined my image publicly,” he said, his voice cold, his eyes boring into me.
“You made me a fool before my rivals.”
My heart raced.
“Antonio’s family...” I whispered, sharp. “They put a bounty on my head. The men at the airstrip—they were going to sell me to them. I heard it.”
For a moment, Dmitri was silent, his broad back stiff as stone. The laptop screen’s glow painted his profile in blue. Then—
CRACK.
The laptop slammed shut, the sound like a gunshot in the room.
He turned, eyes blazing, and in three strides he was in front of me. His hand shot out, gripping my jaw, forcing me to look up into that fury.
“Don’t ever,” he snarled, his breath hot against my lips, “speak that bastard’s name in my presence again.”
His fingers tightened, not enough to bruise but enough to remind me of his power. “You belong to me. Do you hear me, Penelope? Me. Not him. Not his family. Not anyone else. I’ll rip out every throat that so much as whispers your name in the wrong breath.”
The silk of my gown rustled as I trembled beneath his grip, his rage burning hotter than my fear.
He released me abruptly, as if disgusted by his own loss of control, and strode back to his desk. The laptop snapped open once more, its glow washing over his sharp features.
“You’re being hunted by many families now,” he said flatly, his fingers already tapping the keys. “Not just that bastard’s.”
I shifted on the bed, the gown whispering against my skin, my legs still aching. “I’d like to take a stroll,” I said carefully, testing the edges of his control. “I promise I won’t run this time.”
His eyes never left the screen. “Giovanni is at your service,” he said, dismissive, like granting a queen her guard.
Relief flooded me—God, he’d agreed.
My chest caved, breath shallow, his broad back taunting me with the ghost of the boy I once loved—now a monster.
“So if I agree to have your baby...” my voice shook, “...will you let me go after I give birth?”
His fingers froze on the keyboard, his entire body tensing, shoulders rigid.
“You are bound to me forever, Penelope,” he said, his voice fervent—less a statement than an oath carved into stone.
Slowly, he turned, those icy eyes locking onto mine, his tailored suit cutting the image of power—but it was the hunger in his gaze that froze me.
“You became mine when I was nineteen and you were fifteen. Do you understand? Mine. The moment I laid eyes on you, you stopped belonging to yourself.”
His chest rose and fell sharply, his words unspooling like chains.
“You will remain mine until death. I don’t care if you want it. I don’t care if you hate me. You’re stuck with me—my wife, my ring on your finger, my blood in your veins when you bear my child.”
His voice dropped lower, burning with a twisted devotion.
“Only death can part us. Not distance, not divorce, not God Himself. So stop dreaming of freedom, Penelope. That dream doesn’t exist anymore.”
His words dripped with possession, each syllable a chain.
My chest caved.
“As long as you keep me here against my will,” I said, my voice trembling but defiant, “I swear I’ll never let you touch me.”
He slammed his laptop shut, the sound sharp, and stood, striding toward the bed, his boots silent but menacing.
“You keep saying that,” he muttered, stalking toward me, boots silent, eyes lit with fire. “As if you don’t secretly crave me.”
He loomed over me, his shadow swallowing mine, the sheer force of his presence pressing down until my lungs forgot how to work. Heat rolled off his body in waves.
My pulse thundered, every nerve sparking at his nearness.
“No, I don’t crave you, Dmitri,” I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart. “Not this monster you’ve become.”
“Is that so?” he asked, bending closer, his hands pinning my wrists to the bed, his face inches from mine, his breath hot, his sandalwood scent intoxicating.
My body betrayed me, leaning toward him, my lips parting, drawn to his toxic pull.
His lips brushed my throat—soft.
A moan escaped, unbidden, the tension electric, my skin tingling.
Shame seared me.
He lifted a hand, caressing my hair, his fingers trailing down my neck, to my shoulder, then brushing the neckline of my gown, his touch igniting a fire I hated.
His lips found my neck, slow and deliberate, each brush a brand against my skin.
A treacherous sound slipped from me—a breathy moan I hadn’t meant to give—as my body arched toward him, my breasts brushing his chest, betraying every ounce of resistance I clung to.
It wasn’t a choice—it was a reflex, a treachery written into my body, surrendering to his heat even as my mind screamed to resist.
My nipples hardened under the thin silk, my breath quickening as his hand grazed my arm, then settled on my breast, circling gently, the fabric a cruel barrier.
He circled my other breast, his touch maddening, and I let out a helpless whimper.
“Stop!” I gasped, my voice weak, my body trembling with unwanted desire.
“Why would I?” he murmured, kissing my neck again, then the exposed skin of my chest, his lips warm, sending shivers through me.
My thighs clenched, my panties—had I been wearing any—would’ve been soaked, my body betraying my hatred.
His hand slid to my thigh, caressing gently, inching upward, and I grabbed it, my voice desperate.
“No... I don’t want this.”
“You don’t want what?” he asked, his lips still hovering, his eyes dark with obsession, his voice a seductive growl.
I hated how he affected me, how my body craved the monster I despised.
Without warning, he slammed his lips against mine, the kiss hard, consuming, his tongue claiming me.
I kissed back, aggressive, angry, my lips battling his, hating my response.
He tore his mouth from mine, panting, eyes wild, fevered. “You drive me insane, Penelope,” he rasped, voice ragged with want, before crushing his lips back to mine, deeper, hungrier, his hand seizing my waist like he’d never let go.
“I don’t give a damn what you’ve heard about your body,” he growled against my lips, each word hot and desperate. “Every curve is mine to worship—mine to claim.”
Another searing kiss, fierce and consuming, and I melted against him, my lips betraying me, my resolve splintering under the weight of his hunger.
He dragged his mouth away, his voice dropping to a guttural snarl. “Every inch of you is mine to ruin.”
His eyes burned into mine, daring me to deny what my body confessed.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known—because you’re mine.”
He devoured me once more, the kiss desperate, a collision of hate and obsession, then pulled back, chest heaving, his trousers straining with proof of his desire, his body a weapon aimed only at me.
But his face twisted, rage contorting what moments ago had looked like worship. His voice lashed out, venom dripping from every word.
“But I fucking hate you,” he spat, eyes blazing, veins taut in his neck. “I hate you so much I want to shatter you. To strip away every illusion, until you hate your body, your breath, your very existence. Until you beg me for death—and still, I won’t give it.”
My chest caved, my heart splintering.
The same man who had just called me beautiful now vowed to unmake me.
“I don’t deserve this,” I whispered, voice breaking, body still flushed and traitorous from his touch, shame burning low in my belly.
“It’s not hatred,” he growled, turning to the desk, his hands gripping the edge until his knuckles went bone-white. “Hatred ends. This—” his voice cracked, guttural, “—this is worse. This is forever.”
With a roar, he flipped the desk, the crash of glass and steel exploding across marble like a gunshot.
His shoulders heaved, every breath a war between control and madness.
I stood frozen, legs trembling, my gown clinging to my damp skin.
Desire and terror warred inside me. “Can we talk about it?” I asked, my voice fragile, reaching for the ghost of the boy I’d once loved.
He spun on me, eyes bloodshot, fist clenched so tight it looked ready to break bone. “Leave,” he said, voice low and dangerous.
“What?” My heart pounded.
“Go take your stroll, or scream, or whatever the fuck you want,” he snarled, his voice shaking with rage. “Just get out—before I put my hands on you in a way I won’t regret.”
I hesitated, then nodded, my bare feet whispering against the marble as I fled to my wardrobe. My pulse thundered, fear and forbidden desire choking me.
Dmitri Volkov was a storm—obsessed, cruel, broken—and I was trapped inside him.