Twisted Addiction: Chapter 14

The word punishment hollowed the air between us.

It hit me like a blade, sharp—because he wanted me to feel it, to understand the twisted truth he’d built our entire marriage on.

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

My chest heaved against his, and the sound that escaped me wasn’t quite a sob—it was something rawer, smaller, like my body was remembering pain before my mind caught up.

I lifted my hands and pushed weakly at his chest, but he didn’t move. His grip only tightened, as if the act of holding me was the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely.

Dmitri’s eyes burned into mine, a storm of intensity that made my heart stutter.

I searched his face, desperate for a crack in his guarded facade, but he hid his feelings with a skill that left me grasping at shadows.

“I tried to forgive you,” he said, his voice splintering. “I tried to pretend you weren’t the reminder of everything I lost. But every time you breathe next to me, every time you look at me like I’m still the boy you knew—” He broke off, his hand tightening at my jaw. “It feels like betrayal.”

Tears stung my eyes, blurring the flicker of the candles behind him.

“You think it’s betrayal to still love you?” I demanded, the words trembling but fierce. “You punish me for what you can’t forgive yourself for. You want to bury me in your pain because you can’t crawl out of it alone.”

Something in him shifted—fractured.

His breath came ragged. He stepped back half a pace, as if my words had struck deeper than any weapon.

But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.

“You’re not punishing me, Dmitri. You’re punishing yourself. And if this—” I gestured weakly between us, to the invisible chain binding us together “—if this is what’s left of love for you, then maybe I’d rather be hated.”

He stared at me—silent, unmoving, but the flicker in his eyes wasn’t rage anymore. It was devastation.

I took another step back.

My hands were shaking so hard I could barely curl them into fists.

“You said I’m yours,” I whispered. “Then be a man and choose what that means. Possession or love. Control or forgiveness. You can’t keep breaking me to prove you still feel.”

He said nothing. Just watched me like a drowning man watches the last breath he’ll never take.

Then swiftly, he closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, his lips crashing against mine with a ferocity that stole my breath.

I should have resisted, pushed him away, but his kiss was a tidal wave, overwhelming and relentless, drowning my resolve.

His mouth moved against mine with a desperate hunger, teeth grazing my lower lip, tongue demanding entrance as if he were starved for me.

My body betrayed me, leaning into him, my hands clutching his shoulders as I kissed him back with equal fervor, our lips locked in a dance of need and defiance.

He lifted me effortlessly, his hands gripping my hips as he carried me to the edge of a pew, setting me down with a gentleness that contrasted the fire in his kiss.

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.

The doctor set his case down on a pew. The metallic click of its latches echoed like gunfire in the cathedral’s hollow air.

“Don’t do this,” I whispered, shaking my head, backing away. “Dmitri, don’t—”

My voice snapped, rising in raw panic. “You can’t decide this for me!”

He met my eyes then—steady, pitiless, the kind of calm that made monsters holy. “You were willing to destroy yourself,” he said softly. “I’m just preventing the inevitable.”

My stomach twisted, bile rising in my throat. I looked at Giovanni—my last hope—and saw it. The guilt in his eyes.

“You traitor!” I choked out, lunging toward him, my voice cracking with disbelief.

Giovanni’s jaw tightened, his gaze dropping to the marble floor as if it could swallow him.

“I’m sorry, Penelope,” he said quietly, his voice laced with reluctant duty. “The boss only wants what’s best for you. Carrying this pregnancy any longer could cause severe complications—internal damage that might become irreversible. You… you wouldn’t survive to full term.”

He swallowed, forcing a steadier tone, professional but heavy. “The procedure is medically necessary, even if you’re not ready to accept it.”

I moved before I could think—anger, fear, and betrayal twisting into a single, reckless impulse.

“Penelope—” Giovanni started, but it was too late.

I stormed toward Dmitri, the echo of my heels slicing through the cathedral’s silence.

He turned at the last second, his expression unreadable—and I stepped into him, close enough to feel the chill of his composure. For a heartbeat, it looked like I was reaching for him.

Then I slipped the gun from his waistband.

He barely flinched as I stepped back, arm raised, the barrel trained on his chest. My hands shook, but my voice didn’t.

“Don’t pretend this is about love,” I hissed, my breath ragged. “You want control, not me. You’d rather play God than be a husband.”

The doctor froze near the altar; Giovanni tensed by the door, torn between loyalty and conscience.

“I’m carrying this child,” I said, my voice breaking. “To term. No matter what your doctor says.”

Dmitri’s eyes flicked down—then back up. Calm. Dissecting.

It infuriated me.

“You’re bleeding again,” he said quietly.

The words sliced through me.

My stomach lurched as I instinctively glanced down, stepping back to hide the faint red seeping through the fabric. The subchorionic hematoma—the doctor’s warnings—it all rushed back like static in my ears.

I straightened, forcing defiance into my voice. “If it kills me, so be it.”

His gaze softened—not with pity, but with that dark, terrifying tenderness that was uniquely Dmitri’s. “You think I’ll let you die?” he asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’d set the world on fire before I buried you, Penelope. You’ll live. Even if it means killing what’s inside you.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” I snapped, my finger trembling on the trigger.

He took a step closer, slow, deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal.

“The fetus is dying,” he murmured, voice dangerously calm. “Your organs are tearing themselves apart. You think that’s strength? That’s suicide. I won’t allow it.”

“Fuck you,” I choked, my heart hammering. “No one touches me. No injections. No surgery. Not one fucking needle.”

The doctor shifted, eyes darting between us. Giovanni’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Dmitri’s lips curved into something that wasn’t a smile. “You won’t shoot me,” he said softly, taking another step.

“Don’t test me,” I warned, my voice cracking.

He kept coming.

Every step echoed like a countdown.

“You won’t shoot me,” he repeated, his voice low—almost reverent. “Because even now, even hating me, you still want to save me.”

“Stay the hell back, Dmitri!”

He stopped—just out of reach, close enough for me to see the flicker of madness in his eyes. “I don’t fear death, Milaya,” he whispered. “But I do fear you leaving me again. So if I have to be the monster that keeps you breathing, then so be it.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The gun trembled in my hands. I couldn’t tell if my tears were rage or heartbreak anymore.

“Dmitri—get the fuck back!” I screamed, voice cracking as adrenaline shoved the world to its edges.

My finger was white-knuckled on the trigger; my lungs burned.

He kept coming.

Not running, not lurching — he advanced with the terrible calm of a man convinced the world will bend to him. He reached for the gun as if reclaiming a toy. Instinct snapped. I fired.

The shot detonated, glass tinkling from the chandeliers.

The sound rolled through the basilica like a thrown thing.

Dmitri jerked, an arc of red blossoming across his forearm and splattering the sleeve of his suit. He stumbled back, more surprised than hurt, and then steadied as if the wound were an inconvenient detail.

Giovanni and the doctor lunged. The doctor’s face went paper-white as he fumbled for his kit; Giovanni’s jaw clenched so hard I could see the tendon jump. They dropped to their knees around Dmitri, hands moving with practiced urgency.

Guilt hit me like a wave. For one dizzy heartbeat I saw only the blood—bright, obscene—and my mouth went dry. Then the old iron in my chest steeled itself.

“You will not make this choice for me,” I said, my voice small and brittle and somehow steadier than I felt. “Not now. Not ever. This is my body. My child. My decision.”

I moved on shaking legs, keeping the gun trained on him as I bent to gather the divorce papers from the marble. My fingers left red smears on the edges as I slapped the file down on a nearby lectern, breath coming in sharp, hot bursts.

“Sign these,” I forced out, the gun level, my throat raw. “Now. Do it — or I will shoot again.”

He looked at me then. Not with dread. Not with surprise. With the same steady, dangerous curiosity he wore to look at a chessboard where he knew every outcome.

A smirk crossed his face — small and contemptuous and utterly certain. The doctor pressed a square of gauze to the wound, swearing softly, hands shaking. Giovanni’s eyes pleaded at me, then slid to Dmitri as if begging permission to act.

Dmitri moved like a man bored with theatrics.

He tore the gauze away from his arm, drew one of the bloody divorce papers toward him, and, with a grunt that was almost amusement, pressed the page flat against his bleeding skin. The ink ran, red streaks joining the printed words. He ripped the page in two and let the pieces flutter to the floor.

“You think a scrawled signature will set you free?” he said, each syllable soft as velvet and sharp as a blade.

Blood dripped from his forearm onto the marble. “You’ll pay for this, Penelope.” His voice was a low growl now, threaded with something worse than promise — an unhinged calculus of retribution.

“You think I won’t shoot again?” I shot back, the steadiness in my tone belying the way my hands shook.

The gun felt like the last honest thing I owned.

He swayed, breath shallow, and Giovanni steadied him, easing him onto a pew.

The doctor’s fingers worked quickly, clean and clinical. “Mr. Volkov, sit. Please,” he urged, voice tight, pulling out forceps and a small suction device. “I need to remove the bullet. Sit and hold still.”

Dmitri obeyed — but his eyes never left mine.

There was a storm behind them: fury, obsession, hunger, calculation. He watched me like a man cataloguing a new wound to remember later.

The basilica hummed with stunned silence.

The statue of his mother presided above us, marble and unblinking, as our private apocalypse played out beneath her cold gaze.

Giovanni’s voice broke through the fog in a whisper that was both apology and command. “Penelope—please. Please put the gun down.”

My hands trembled. The barrel felt impossibly heavy.

Every instinct told me to run, to escape, to throw the weapon away and never look back. Another part of me — the part that had been erased and rebuilt by fear and small, stubborn rebellion — kept the gun trained on him.

Dmitri let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “You did what you had to do,” he said, not unkindly. “You shot me. Congratulations. You finally made a choice.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snapped. “I don’t want your congratulations.”

He blinked once, slow, as if cataloguing the moment. Then his mouth curved, not into a smile but into the promise of a storm. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s why I’ll make you regret it.”

The doctor’s hands were no longer gentle but necessary. Giovanni swallowed and looked away. I remained where I was — gun aimed, breath shallow, the weight of everything pressing down like a stone.