Chapter 8
PENELOPE
His hands shot out, seizing my arms. His grip was iron but not reckless; tight enough to bruise, restrained enough to remind me it was control, not chaos, that governed him.
My body trembled despite myself, breath hitching.
I forced my chin up to meet his gaze, but his intensity was a living thing, a current that made my knees go weak.
“You’ll never even think of another man.
” He growled, voice dragging over gravel.
“If you look at any man the wrong way, he dies. If any man so much as breathes your name with hunger, he dies. And if one dares to touch you—” He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over my ear, his words hot and venomous.
“—then his entire bloodline burns with him. I’ll hunt them down one by one, until the name of the man who touched what’s mine becomes a curse whispered in fear. ”
His tone deepened, almost reverent, almost mad. “You think this is jealousy, Penelope? It’s not. It’s law. You are the territory I bleed for, the only thing I’ve claimed with my soul, and if the world forgets that—then I’ll remind them with fire.”
He cupped my jaw roughly, forcing my gaze up to his.
His eyes gleamed like an unholy promise, both terrifying and beautiful in their devotion.
“I’m the only man you’ll dream of, the only name your lips will remember in the dark.
You’ll wake up reaching for me, even when I’m not there.
You’ll crave me in the quiet moments, hate me for it, and still come back. ”
His thumb brushed my lower lip, a slow, possessive drag that made my pulse stutter.
“There won’t be room for anyone else—not in your mind, not in your bed, not in the air you breathe.
I’ll be the shadow in your every thought, the ache in your veins.
You were made for me, Penelope, and I’ll make sure you never forget it. Not even death will free you from me.”
The words weren’t shouted—they were claimed. A vow and a threat braided together.
In one smooth, almost terrifyingly effortless motion, he lifted me.
My mind screamed too heavy, too much, but he handled me as if I weighed nothing at all.
The cool wood of the table met my thighs as he set me down, the impact reverberating through me like a secret.
One hand stayed on my hip, fingers splayed, anchoring me. The other came up to my jaw, his thumb pressing beneath my chin until I had no choice but to face him—his storm-colored eyes, the heat radiating off him, the sheer gravity of his presence.
For a moment, there was only him: his dominance, his heat, his unshakable claim wrapping around me like a chain I couldn’t quite decide if I wanted to break or wear.
“You left me...” I said, my voice trembling with a mix of accusation and heartbreak, each word heavy with the weight of those desolate months. “For four months, Dmitri. You—”
“So what?” Dmitri’s response was a cold blade, slicing through my chest.
His indifference shattered me, confirming what I’d always feared—he hated me, even if his possessiveness bound me to him like chains.
I looked away, my eyes stinging with unshed tears, my heart splintering as I tried to hold myself together.
His hand caught my chin, forcing my face toward him, but I kept my gaze averted, unable to meet those piercing blue eyes.
I wanted—needed—an explanation, some reason for his absence, for the silence that had left me drowning in loneliness.
Was it truly his punishment, as those cruel texts had implied?
The question burned, but I couldn’t voice it, not when his touch already felt like a cage.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice low and insistent.
I tried to wrench my face away, but his grip tightened, pinning my chin with unrelenting strength.
“Penelope.” Each syllable cracked like a whip. “Look. At. Me.”
“Stop—stop saying my name like it still means something to you!” I snapped, my voice breaking as hot tears streaked my cheeks.
My words came out like shrapnel. “Go on—keep punishing me. That’s what you do best.”
My chest heaved, every word scraping my throat raw. “Fake-cheating on me. Disappearing for months after taking my virginity. What’s next, Dmitri?”
My voice dropped to a venomous hiss, trembling but sharp. “What new kind of hell do you have planned for me?”
His eyes bore into mine, unyielding, and for a moment, I thought he’d offer some defense, some shred of remorse.
Instead, he sidestepped my pain entirely. “You will abort this child,” he said, his tone flat, final.
I let out a disbelieving laugh, the sound jagged. “What?”
I shoved against him, trying to push him away, but he stood like a monolith, immovable. “I made it clear—I’m not aborting my child.”
“It’s not a child yet,” he countered, his voice edged with a clinical precision that chilled me.
“It’s an embryo, Penelope, and it’s putting your life at risk.
The doctor was clear: the subchorionic hematoma and your bicornuate uterus make this pregnancy unsustainable.
I won’t let you die for a cluster of cells. No. Absolutely not for this.”
“Bold of you,” I spat, “to pretend my life matters more to you than it does to me. Bolder still to believe you have any right to decide what happens to my child. You don’t get to play protector after you’ve already ruined me. “
“Again, it’s not a child yet,” he said, finally stepping back, giving me a sliver of space. “Let me make it clear since the doctor didn’t: if you continue this pregnancy, your body can’t sustain it. You will die, Penelope. And it’s not just your ‘child’—it’s mine too. We both have a say.”
“No—you don’t get a say,” I snapped, fury rising in my throat. “You didn’t hold your stomach at night, wondering if the baby was still alive. You didn’t feel the fear clawing through my ribs.”
“It’s still my blood in his veins. Whether you like it or not, Penelope, that gives me a say,” he said, his gaze unwavering, a flicker of something raw breaking through his stoic facade.
I pushed off the table, my legs unsteady but my resolve ironclad.
“I’m not aborting my child,” I said, each word deliberate, a blade sliding between us. “And unless you plan to drag me to an operating table yourself, we’re done here.”
My breath hitched, but I forced my chin high. “I’m tired, Dmitri. I need rest.”
I turned, waiting for his inevitable command—Stop. Come back. Don’t you dare walk away from me.
But nothing came. Only silence. Heavy, suffocating.
I could feel him behind me like a storm you know is about to break.
I climbed the stairs to the mansion’s rooftop balcony, seeking solace in the open air.
The night was cool, the distant crash of waves against Lake Como’s shore a faint lullaby.
I sank into a cushioned chair, staring out at the dark expanse of water shimmering under the moonlight, the beach stretching below like a silver ribbon.
His words echoed in my mind: if I didn’t abort, I’d likely die.
The bleeding would continue, the hematoma growing, my malformed uterus unable to support the life inside me.
Carrying this child to term is absolutely impossible, according to the doctor. But what cuts even deeper than losing this pregnancy is the haunting thought that I may never bear a child—not now, not ever. That the chance to have my own child, to create life, may be gone forever.
The pain wasn’t just emotional; it was physical. It burned in my chest, a sharp tearing that made it hard to breathe, and pulsed in my temples like a heartbeat gone wrong.
I’d always cared about having a child—more than I’d ever admitted to anyone, even to myself. It wasn’t just a want; it was a need, a promise I’d quietly built my life around. A piece of my soul I’d always imagined passing on, shaping, nurturing.
Now, staring down the choice between my life and this pregnancy, I felt like I was drowning—caught between two impossible shores.
The thought of ending it ripped me apart, like I was being asked to amputate a part of myself. But the alternative—bleeding out, risking everything, leaving this world before I’d even had the chance to be a mother—terrified me just as much.
Why me? Why this? Why now, when I had nothing left but this dream?
Lost in my thoughts, I drifted down to the beach behind the mansion. The wind tangled in my hair, the sand cool and damp beneath my bare feet
The water lapped gently at my toes, grounding me as I stared into the endless sea, searching for answers it couldn’t give.
“Sad? Worried?” A familiar voice broke through my reverie, and I turned to see Giovanni limping toward me, his silhouette framed by the moonlight.
His bandaged legs moved with effort, but his expression was warm, almost teasing.
“Leave me,” I said, my voice flat, not in the mood for his games.
Instead, he took a step closer, his gaze drifting to the water. “He wants you to abort the child, doesn’t he?”
I stared at him, incredulous. “You’ve been eavesdropping?”
He chuckled, a low, easy sound, as he limped forward to stand beside me, the waves brushing his boots.
“My mother...” he began, eyes fixed on the dark horizon. “She had something similar. Not a bicornuate uterus—fibroids. Doctors told her pregnancy could kill her.” His voice softened, almost fond. “She was stubborn.”
He gave a small, rueful laugh, eyes distant as the tide whispered at our feet. “She went through with it anyway.”
I drew in a sharp breath, my gaze sliding to his profile. In the moonlight, the scars on his face didn’t look so harsh.
“Did she survive?”
“Yes.” He turned to me then, that faint, knowing glint flickering in his eyes.
“What?” I pressed, feeling something tighten in my chest. “Are you... are you saying I shouldn’t do it? That I should keep it?”
He shrugged, his gaze drifting back to the black shimmer of the water. “I’d like to see you holding a child someday,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “But not if it costs you your life. That’s too steep a price. Follow your heart, Penelope—but do it with your eyes open.”
“But I’ll die,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash.
He tilted his head, studying me, his expression unreadable.
“Maybe,” he said at last, voice deliberate.
“But maybe not. I have contacts back in Russia—medical scientists, the kind who work where most countries won’t even look.
Their methods...” He gave a humorless laugh.
“Experimental. Risky. Based on trial and error, nothing officially approved. But they’ve had breakthroughs with conditions like yours. ”
I stared at him, stunned. “You’re saying there’s a chance?”
“If you’re willing to take it,” he said simply. “I could arrange something. But it won’t be safe, and it won’t be easy. You’d have to decide if the risk is worth it.”
“I’m all in,” I said, voice steady despite the jitter of hope flaring inside me.
He gave a wry, almost crooked smile. “Well, this’ll be the first time I’ve ever kept something from the boss.”
“You’re doing it for me,” I said, a flicker of gratitude softening my tone.
He shook his head, laughter rumbling low and humorless. “No. I’m doing it for Dmitri. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
I let out a small, reluctant laugh. “Right... well, thank you, anyway.”
“Dmitri’s napping now,” he said, leaning on the railing as the waves licked at our boots, “but he’s got a meeting soon. A trial. Should keep him busy for at least six hours.”
I blinked at him, thrown off balance. “Dmitri’s on trial?”
“Yeah,” Giovanni said, like it was just another line on a grocery list. “For forcing you into marriage. The case is still dragging its feet, but don’t lose sleep over it—we’ve got ways of handling judges and paperwork.”
His nonchalance cut me. I stared at the horizon, the guilt creeping in before I could stop it.
I’d exposed Dmitri at that bar—blurting the truth in a burst of anger. It was my words that put him under a microscope. My words that had led to this trial. Despite everything—his cruelty, his distance—a pang of remorse twisted in my stomach.
“Hey,” Giovanni’s voice broke through my thoughts, sharper now. “Eyes over here. Not on the guilt trip.”
I glanced at him, startled by the steel in his tone. He smirked faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“How about I take you somewhere... different? Somewhere you can forget all this for a while. You look like you’ve forgotten how to be happy.”
I blinked at him, unsure if I’d heard right.
My arms tightened around myself, a shield against the suggestion. “Happy?” The word tasted foreign. “What makes you think I want a field trip with you?”
He chuckled, low and rough, as though my defiance amused him. “I didn’t say you wanted it. I’m saying you need it.”
My throat tightened, a flare of suspicion rising. “And where exactly are you planning to take me?”
“Where I’m taking you—it’s a surprise,” he went on, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “But you can’t tell Dmitri. Not a word.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You? Hiding things from him now? What happened to that famous loyalty of yours?”
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth quirking into that maddening half-smile. “Loyalty’s not about blind obedience. It’s about keeping the boss’s world from falling apart—even if he doesn’t know how to keep it together himself. You’re part of that world whether you like it or not.”
I let out a short, humorless laugh. “So now you’re my guardian angel?”
“No,” he said simply. “I’m just the guy who knows when to open a door and when to close it. If you want a few hours away from all this, be at the parking lot in thirty minutes. If you don’t show...” He shrugged, already turning to limp up the shore. “I’ll take the secret with me.”
I frowned, searching his scarred face for a tell. “Why do I feel like this is a trap?”
“It’s not a trap.” He smirked. “Call it... a reset button. You either press it, or you stay stuck here.”
I didn’t answer.
The waves crashed below, cold and restless, like my thoughts. A “reset button” sounded too good to be real—but the ache in my chest, the claustrophobia of these walls, made my resolve wobble.
When I finally looked up, Giovanni was already moving away, his limp pronounced but steady, his silhouette shrinking against the silvered horizon.
The night seemed to swallow him whole.
I stayed where I was, the salt wind biting at my skin, alone with the crashing surf and my storm of thoughts.
His offer hovered in the air like a lifeline dangling just out of reach, and I didn’t know if I had the courage—or the stupidity—to take it.