Ruthless Addiction: Chapter 7

Isat rigid in the passenger seat, forcing my mind away from his question, away from the fierce scrutiny in his eyes that seemed to probe every corner of my soul.

Instead, I studied myself—the dress that bound me, the ring that chained me—and this strange, suffocating world I had stepped into by this marriage. A world that belonged to him, and yet, for now, he had no idea how much of it I intended to poison from within.

My wedding gown hadn’t been designed for a car.

Silk pooled awkwardly around my ankles, the train crushed beneath my heels like something already ruined.

The diamond ring on my finger felt less like a promise and more like a restraint—cold, heavy. Every time I flexed my hand, it reminded me of what I had agreed to. What I had sacrificed.

My heart beat too loud. Too fast. A drumroll announcing a lie that couldn’t hold forever.

Dmitri exhaled slowly, the sound tight with irritation at my silence.

He withdrew from me and faced the road, his jaw locking into a mask of control. Yet the car remained dead beneath us—engine silent, motionless—trapping us together in the space where neither of us had won.

His profile was all sharp lines and control—jaw set, mouth carved into something unreadable.

Both hands gripped the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity, veins standing out along his forearms like cables pulled too tight.

The silence between us was not empty.

It pressed. It breathed. It waited.

Dmitri broke the silence, his voice low and lethal.

“I see you’re unwilling to give me answers,” he said, eyes burning with controlled fury. “You think I wouldn’t notice how carefully you hide everything… how much of yourself you’re willing to lie about?”

I let out a slow, sharp laugh, cold and deliberate. “Answers? Oh, Mr. Volkov… it’s hardly a crime to resemble your late wife.” I turned to him, letting the weight of my gaze press against his. “You, on the other hand… you chose to marry a woman who could pass for her twin. That’s your obsession, not mine.”

He narrowed his eyes, dangerous.

“And don’t think your fury frightens me,” I added, letting the words drip like ice. “I’m not your ghost to control.”

His jaw flexed.

Once. Twice.

The muscle ticked like a warning.

“No,” he said quietly.

I turned toward him. “No?”

“I’m done being played.”

He turned his head, and the look in his eyes made my stomach drop. Fury was there—but beneath it, something far worse. Desperation. Grief sharpened into obsession.

“You’re not some random tourist,” he said. “You’re not a coincidence. You’re Penelope.” His voice roughened. “My Penelope.”

The name landed like a blow.

“You never died,” he went on, breath tight. “Ruslan faked it. Covered it. Buried an empty coffin and told me you were ashes.” His gaze bored into me. “You either came back from the dead… or you never left.”

My heart slammed so hard I thought he might hear it.

Blood roared in my ears, heat rushing to my face, but I forced my expression into irritation—offense sharpened into annoyance.

“Oh, I’ve had enough of this,” I snapped. “Is this really how you behave with your new wife? Accusing her of being a ghost? Your dead fiancée?” I laughed again, harder this time. “Do you do this often, Dmitri, or am I special?”

His eyes searched my face, ruthless and methodical, hunting for cracks.

“You know I can order a DNA test tomorrow,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “One swab. One lab. And I’ll know if that boy is mine.”

The world narrowed to a single point.

“If you’re lying,” he continued, “you’re destroying him. And yourself. So stop driving me insane and tell me the truth.” His voice dropped. “Tell me you’re alive. Tell me I’m not crazy.”

For just a second—just one—I saw the man beneath the monster. The man who had lost everything and was still bleeding from it.

If he tested Vanya, everything would collapse.

Ruslan’s deception.

My survival.

My son’s safety.

Escape would vanish.

I swallowed, forcing calm into my bones.

“I’m not her,” I said evenly. “I’m Pen. I’m Greek. I was stupid enough to come to Lake Como on vacation and unlucky enough to cross paths with you.” I met his gaze without flinching. “Run your test. You’ll see.”

He stared at me.

Seconds stretched.

Then he exhaled sharply and turned back to the road.

The engine surged to life. The Rolls-Royce pulled back onto the asphalt, accelerating hard enough to press me into the seat.

But the silence that followed was different.

He didn’t believe me.

And worse—

He wasn’t letting it go.

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

Not the peaceful kind.

The kind that pressed, that waited, that listened.

My thoughts spun viciously in my skull—confess and detonate everything, or hold the lie and pray he never followed through on the test.

Three months. Ninety days. I repeated it like a spell, like a promise I could cling to.

Three months, and Vanya and I would be gone.

Out of Lake Como.

Out of Dmitri Volkov’s reach.

The gates appeared ahead—tall, seamless steel sliding open to reveal his new estate.

Not a home.

A fortress.

Glass and steel rose from the hillside in brutal symmetry, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces, colder than the old villa had ever been. No warmth. No history. Just dominance carved into architecture, staring down at the lake like it owned the water itself.

The car slowed and rolled into the courtyard.

Dmitri parked and got out without a word.

I followed, my heels crunching against gravel, the wedding gown’s train dragging behind me like a mistake I couldn’t shake. He stood a few feet away, hands buried in his pockets, shoulders squared, face unreadable.

The urge to speak clawed up my throat.

“I—” I started, the truth rising like bile. Let it burn. Let it all burn.

“Apologies.”

The word stopped me cold.

He didn’t look at me when he spoke. His voice was rough, scraped raw. “I lost my head. Penelope’s been a ghost for five years.” A pause. “Your resemblance… it’s something. But that doesn’t give me the right to accuse you.”

I searched his face, waiting for the trap.

It didn’t come.

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” he added. Controlled. Distant. Finished.

Relief flooded me—bitter and unwelcome. He was letting it go.

For now.

I nodded once, keeping my face neutral. “Thank you.”

“Come in,” he said, already turning toward the doors.

Inside, the foyer opened into dizzying space. A waterfall cascaded down black stone into a glowing koi pond, the fish gliding silently beneath the surface like living jewels.

Everything was immaculate. Cold. Perfect.

I didn’t admire it.

I headed straight for the suite he’d assigned us.

I half-expected him to stop me—to remind me that wives didn’t get separate quarters, that contracts didn’t override ownership. He didn’t.

He let me walk away.

The suite was exactly as I’d left it. Vanya’s side bursting with color and soft chaos—pillows, books, toy dinosaurs lined up with military precision. My side restrained, minimal, quiet.

I locked the door.

The sound echoed.

My knees gave out and I slid down the wood paneling, breath finally shuddering out of me. My heart was still racing, still screaming danger.

Vanya wasn’t here yet. Giovanni was bringing him separately, as promised.

I stood, stripped out of the wedding gown, and let it fall to the floor in a heap. Ivory silk. Silver thread. A lie stitched beautifully enough to fool the world.

I stepped into the shower and turned it as hot as it would go.

The water hit my skin in a relentless downpour. I scrubbed my face, my neck, my hands—washed away makeup, sweat, the memory of Dmitri’s touch. I stayed there until my skin burned, until steam clouded the glass and tears slipped free, indistinguishable from the water.

I hated that my body still betrayed me.

That his voice still crawled under my skin.

That his nearness lit something reckless and alive inside me.

That at the altar, when he’d whispered cruelty into my ear, my pulse had jumped instead of recoiling.

I hated myself most of all for that.

I stepped out of the bathroom, steam billowing behind me like a veil, and froze.

Dmitri was there.

Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his broad chest, one ankle hooked over the other in that deceptively casual pose he used when he was anything but relaxed.

The charcoal shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing corded forearms I remembered far too well.

The bedside lamp threw him into chiaroscuro—sharp cheekbones, silver threading his temples like a quiet admission of time’s victories over him.

His eyes were fixed on me.

Not with desire. Not with that old, dangerous warmth that used to unravel me.

This was worse.

This was the look of a man staring at something he thought he’d buried—something that had clawed its way back to the surface and was now breathing in front of him.

My heart stuttered.

I tightened my grip on the towel instinctively, suddenly hyperaware of how little it covered, how the damp fabric clung to my skin, tracing curves I no longer apologized for.

“Hey,” I said, sharper than intended, heat flooding my face. “You don’t just walk into people’s rooms.”

For a beat, he didn’t move.

Then he pushed off the wall with deliberate slowness, unfolding his six-foot-four frame like a predator rising from rest. His footsteps were silent against the marble, each one measured, controlled—until he stopped close enough that I could feel his heat, smell the faint trace of smoke and cedar and something darker that had always been uniquely Dmitri.

“Except,” he said, voice low and rough, “you’re not people.”

My spine stiffened.

“You’re my wife now.”

The word hit like a brand.

“For three months,” I snapped, lifting my chin, refusing to let him see how violently my pulse had begun to race.

Something dangerous flickered behind his eyes—anger, yes, but threaded through with something far less controlled.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Say that again.”

“Why?” I challenged. “Afraid it’ll remind you this is temporary?”

His jaw tightened. A muscle ticked in his cheek.

“Let this be the last time you mention time limits,” he said, stepping closer, crowding my space without touching me yet. “We’re married. That’s the reality everyone else sees. That’s the only thing that matters.”

I tried to step back, needing air—space that wasn’t saturated with him—but his hand shot out, fingers closing around my waist like iron bands.

He pulled me forward instead.

The contact stole my breath. Not because it was rough—but because it was controlled. Because I could feel the restraint in it, the choice not to grip harder.

“Don’t touch me,” I said, planting my palm flat against his chest.

His heart was hammering beneath my hand.

That—more than anything—shook me.

His grip loosened. Not releasing me. Just enough to acknowledge the line.

“You tempt me,” he said, eyes dropping briefly—not leering, not devouring, but cataloguing, as if he were fighting instinct itself.

“I surely do not intend to,” I shot back, keeping my voice steady despite the heat rising in my chest. “You were the one who barged into my room. Uninvited. Unannounced.”

“This is my room too.”

“No,” I said evenly. “This is the room you assigned me. And you don’t get to claim me just because it’s convenient.”

Silence stretched between us, taut and humming.

Finally, he let go.

The loss of his warmth felt wrong—my body registering the absence before my mind caught up, and I hated myself for it.

He took a step back, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of him.

I adjusted my grip on the towel, suddenly aware of the steam fading, the vulnerability of standing half-naked before a man who’d once known every inch of me.

“If you’re done checking on me,” I said, “you should leave.”

He hesitated.

Then he stepped closer—but stopped a careful distance away this time. Intentional. Controlled.

“You smell like soap and lake water,” he said quietly. “You always—”

He cut himself off.

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

“I’m not her,” I said, my voice steady despite the ache blooming behind my ribs. “And I will not replace her. If that’s what you think this marriage is—”

“It’s not,” he said immediately. Too fast. Too sharp. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Something dark and edged flickered across his face—not quite a smile, but close enough to be dangerous.

“Get dressed,” he said. “Dinner in an hour.”

“I have no intention of eating with you,” I replied, voice steady. “Husband or not, for the duration of this marriage. It isn’t in the contract—but it is what I want.”

His eyes darkened. “You will eat where I say. You will eat when I say.” He paused, the silence sharp and deliberate, then added, low and controlled, “And you will eat with me, at my table, every single day, Pen.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

And I hated the way my body betrayed me, stiffening in reluctant obedience.

I turned away, heading for the wardrobe—but his voice stopped me cold.

“Don’t turn your back on your husband,” he murmured.

His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade.

Then he caught up to me, his expression dark with a raw, desperate hunger—as if he wanted to devour me here and now, yet was holding himself in check, perhaps because of the agreement between us.

His gaze lingered on my chest, dangerous and possessive, while his thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle along my hip—measured, unhurried, claiming.

Every touch sent a jolt through my bloodstream. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Each movement a reminder of something my body had never truly forgotten.

My breath caught despite myself.

“I told you,” I said, forcing the words past the traitorous hitch in my voice, “no sex in this marriage.”

The sentence sounded steadier than I felt.

My heart was hammering hard enough that I was sure he could feel it beneath his palm.

Heat still clung to my skin from the shower, my nerves raw, exposed, my body far too aware of how close he stood. Of him. Of the way his presence filled every inch of space like smoke you couldn’t outrun.

A habit my body remembered even when my mind screamed no.

His gaze dropped—slow, assessing—not leering, not indulgent. He noticed everything. The tension in my shoulders. The way my grip tightened on the towel. The involuntary rise and fall of my chest.

Of course he noticed.

“I remember,” he said quietly. His voice had roughened, scraped raw by restraint. “No sex without your consent. Ever.”

The words landed heavier than a promise.

His hand tightened on my jaw—not bruising, not painful—anchoring me as he stared into my eyes, desperate, as if trying to see straight into my soul.

His thumb brushed the edge of the towel where it rested against my thigh, testing nothing, asking everything.

“But you’re my wife,” he continued, low. “And wives don’t flinch like they’re about to bolt.”

“I’m not flinching,” I shot back, even as my pulse betrayed me.

One corner of his mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker.

“You are,” he said. “And you’re shaking.”

I was trapped between his body and the wall now, the air compressed. His face hovered inches from mine, close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath skim my cheek. Close enough that memory stirred—unwanted, vivid, cruel.

This used to be reverence.

Now it was war.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I said.

“Yes,” he answered without hesitation.

He leaned in just enough for his nose to brush my damp hair, inhaling slowly, deliberately, like he was committing the moment to memory.

“You’re afraid,” he murmured near my ear. “But not only of me.”

My resolve cracked.

For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.

Then his fingers flexed once—hard—like a man forcing himself to let go of something he wanted far too much.