Chapter 20
PENELOPE
Darkness pooled against the windows, thick and endless, while I faced the mirror, smoothing the sleek black dress I’d chosen for Lupo Nero.
The club was a gauntlet, a place where eyes followed me like I carried plague, and every gaze whispered fear of Dmitri Volkov.
The dress clung to my curves, the rolls I’d always loathed now accentuated, but I straightened my spine, forcing courage into the hollow places of my chest.
I wouldn’t let him break me tonight.
Footsteps shattered the silence behind me. I didn’t need to turn. The mirror betrayed him first: Dmitri, in his tailored black suit. His icy blue eyes pierced mine through the glass, a storm of hatred and possession that made my breath hitch.
He moved to his wardrobe, dragging a hand along the carved silver wolves, and pulled out a black silk shirt, the fabric shimmering under the chandelier’s light.
“Wear this,” he said, his voice a growl threaded with command.
I met his gaze through the mirror. “Why? Your clothes don’t even fit me.”
“I have my reasons,” he said, stepping closer, eyes dark. “Wear it, milaya.”
“No,” I muttered, hiding the tremor that betrayed me.
“Penelope.” His tone dropped, edged with danger.
The air between us thickened, a tangible warning.
“What?” I snapped, spinning on my heel, brushing past him as I headed for the door. “I’ll be waiting outside.”
A sharp sound cut through the air—“Stop.”
I froze mid-step, my hand on the doorknob, heart hammering.
“Do not dare to walk out on me, Penelope,” he said, each word a low growl, heavy with warning. “Not now. Not ever.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
I turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
“Or what?” I demanded.
His gaze hardened. “Or I’ll strip you bare of that cloth you’re wearing,” he said, calm, almost flat, yet each syllable carried the weight of absolute intent. “And make you remember what it means to disobey me.”
I swallowed hard, and with a shaky hand, I snatched the shirt from his hands, forcing myself to act before my mind could betray me.
I stripped off my dress and pulled the silk over my head. It hung loose, cool against my skin, carrying his scent.
The memory of the art room, of him stripping me, kissing me, worshipping every flaw while crushing my pride, gnawed at me.
“How do I look?” I asked finally, my voice cold, testing him.
“Pretty,” he said, his eyes blazing with that dangerous possession that made my chest ache.
One hand pressed to my lower back, guiding me out of the room, the silk brushing my thighs, his touch searing.
We looked like lovers to anyone observing, but I knew the truth. He wasn’t here out of affection—he was here because he needed me under his control, body and mind, for reasons I might never fully understand.
Every step I took with him beside me, every brush of his palm along my spine, reminded me of the boy I’d loved—a memory twisted into a nightmare of obsession.
And yet, in spite of the terror, a stubborn ember of rebellion stayed alive within me. I would not surrender entirely.
Not tonight.
We stepped into the cool night, the villa’s marble steps gleaming under the moonlight. I froze for a heartbeat when Dmitri slid into the driver’s seat of the sleek black Rolls-Royce, his hands gripping the wheel with a predatory ease.
“I thought Giovanni would be driving us,” I said, keeping my voice measured,
“He’s tied up,” Dmitri replied, clipped, eyes locked on the road, jaw rigid.
“Tied up with... my father?” I pressed, letting the words slip, testing him. The car jolted slightly at my question, his knuckles whitening on the wheel, a flicker of anger flashing across his face before he steadied the Rolls-Royce.
“You’ve been eavesdropping,” he said, voice dangerous, eyes flicking to me with a heat that made my chest ache—equal parts accusation and dark amusement.
“Let’s just say I was in the right place at the right time,” I replied, forcing a calm edge over the fear curling in my stomach. “I know my father’s here. I need to see him, Dmitri.”
His lips curved into a cruel smirk. “You won’t see him. You won’t speak to your family... not until you carry my child, Penelope.”
The words hit me like ice and fire at once.
I turned away, staring at my ghostly reflection in the window.
“You won’t tell me what my parents did wrong.
.. the debt they owe you. Hell, what I even did wrong.
You cage me from them, yet you think I’ll just..
. just let you have your way with me, let you use me, and then carry your child like it’s nothing?
Hell no. Sorry, but I don’t care if this remains a sexless marriage for as long as you keep being.
.. like this.” My voice trembled, fury and heartbreak clashing.
“There will be plenty of sex, Penelope,” he said, his voice calm, unflinching, the certainty in it infuriating.
“And you will beg for it—a lot. So far, I’ve only been letting you adjust to this territory.
After all, the rest of your life will be spent with me.
Beside me. Why rush what is already yours? ”
A shiver ran through me despite my stubborn posture.
“I’ll never beg you,” I whispered, almost to myself.
He slowed the car, one hand tightening on the wheel, the other brushing just the edge of the console near me. His presence pressed against me without touching.
“You already beg, Penelope,” he said, his tone almost intimate, and it made my stomach twist.
“Every time your body betrays you... every time your pulse races and you think you hate me, that is begging. You cannot hide it from me. I feel it. I own it. You’ve been mine the moment we named the stars, and even now, you cannot run from that truth.”
My chest tightened as the words sank in. I hated him, I loathed him, and yet every word, every accusation, forced my body’s betrayals into the open.
Silence swallowed the car, punctuated only by the engine’s low hum.
He guided the car into Lupo Nero’s lot; neon lights splashed crimson across cobblestones, painting the world in warning colors.
A moment later, he was at my side, opening the door with a motion that felt more command than courtesy.
“I know rebellion runs in your veins,” he said as he killed the engine, voice dangerous. “Act without thinking tonight, Penelope, and I’ll send your father’s head to you as a gift.” His hand extended, forcing a polite, almost cruel smile that didn’t reach the storm in his eyes.
“You think threats scare me?” I asked, staring straight ahead, forcing calm over the panic clawing at my chest.
“Try it,” he said, each word deliberate, like a predator testing the edges of its prey. Of course he meant it.
I swallowed hard and took his hand, my fingers trembling, hiding the storm of anger and fear beneath a mask of measured composure..
The club’s doors swallowed us. Smoke curled in the air, perfume thick and sweet, music pounding through the floor like a heartbeat.
Every gaze fell on us, darting away—Dmitri’s reputation a living shadow.
He nodded at men along the way, terse greetings, sharp nods, clipped words—his empire and dominance radiating through a crowd that dared not breathe too loud. And then, without warning, he guided me to the center of the dance floor, his hand possessive, pressing into my waist, marking me in public.
“Have you danced at a party before?” His voice was dangerous, pulling me closer, our hands interlaced, body pressing against mine with a claim that set my nerves on fire.
“Yes,” I said, steady. “With friends.”
“Male friends?” His eyes darkened, blue flames of jealousy and obsession flickering, hand tightening at my hip.
I smirked, leaning into the lie, feeling the tension coil around us like steel. “Yes,” I said softly.
I had no male friends, but I wanted to needle him, to test the depths of his obsession.
His lips curved downward in a shadow of hurt, possessive as he murmured, “I thought I’d be your first dance.” The music shifted—a slow, sultry beat, wrapping us in its spell.
He pressed closer, hand sliding lower along the small of my back, guiding my hips, drawing me into a rhythm that felt intimate, invasive, and utterly his.
The song ended, and we both stopped moving, bodies still close, his arms around me. He danced like no man should—fluid, confident, every step precise. I hated myself for it, but a part of me had enjoyed the dance, had felt the old pull of the boy I’d loved in the sway of his body.
Without a word, he led me across the club, past the glittering crowd, the thump of bass shaking the floor beneath us.
Women writhed on stages, giving lap dances or moving in ways meant to seduce every leering gaze.
Dmitri sank into a plush leather chair, his posture perfect, eyes glinting with unspoken command.
“Give me a lap dance, milaya,” he said, voice growling.
“I’m not a stripper,” I snapped, cheeks flaming with anger and indignation.
My curves, my rolls... he knows I’m nothing like those slim women on stage, practiced in giving lap dances. Is he trying to mock me? To humiliate me, flaunt me here in front of everyone, make me feel small and exposed in this club?
“Penelope,” he said, slow, deliberate. “Give. Your. Husband. A lap dance.”
“No.” I spat it out, stepping back, feeling the weight of every eye in the club on me.
My pulse thundered with fury, humiliation, and a stubborn fire I couldn’t extinguish.
“Okay.” He lifted a hand, a subtle, commanding gesture, and a woman stepped forward—a sleek, practiced machine of temptation.
Her crimson bikini barely clung to her skin, fishnet stockings tight along long legs.
She straddled him, moving with precision, grinding to the music as though trained to seduce the universe itself.
My chest constricted, a knot twisting in my stomach, a mix of rage and heat I couldn’t control.
But his eyes... they stayed on me. Not her. Every flicker of amusement, every twitch of satisfaction in his gaze burned into me, a challenge, a provocation.
I snapped. Something inside me shattered.
I grabbed a nearby bottle of wine, the cool glass grounding me as I lunged forward. I swung it at her thigh, not aiming to injure, but to disrupt, to reclaim control.
The bottle clattered across the floor, wine spilling in dark rivulets. The dancer stumbled, losing her rhythm, glancing at me with wide, startled eyes.
The club froze, all eyes on us, but Dmitri didn’t move.
He leaned back, lips curling into a dark, knowing smirk, eyes glinting with amusement and something darker—ownership, satisfaction, control.
“So...” His voice sliced through the silence, low and mocking. “Will you give me the lap dance now, milaya?”
“Fuck you,” I mouthed, storming through the crowd, my body trembling with adrenaline—and something else I hated myself for feeling.
I collapsed onto a bench in a shadowed corner, my face buried in my hands.
What had come over me? I’d never been violent, never lost control like this. And yet the thought of him with her—her body on his, her hands where mine should’ve been—had ignited something I couldn’t tame.
Was this jealousy? Obsession? Desire? I hated him, I told myself. He was my captor, my tormentor, a monster who wanted me broken. And yet, my pulse throbbed with the toxic, undeniable pull of him.
I felt sick—for the woman I’d struck, for the reckless violence I’d unleashed—but more so for myself.
For the way my heart still reached, helplessly, for the boy Dmitri had been.
Every misstep, every impulsive act—the planted device, the shattered bottle—sprang from the terror of losing him, even as I hated what he’d become.
I leaned back against the bench, shivering, rage and shame coiling together.
I was caught in his storm, a prisoner not only of his world, but of the part of me that still wanted the boy I’d loved.
The truth cut deeper than any wound: I couldn’t stand the idea of him being anyone else’s, and that was a poison I could neither swallow nor spit out.