Twisted Addiction: Chapter 25

Sleep came like a thief, pulling me under before I could resist. The world dissolved into black, and for the first time in weeks, the nightmares didn’t find me.

When I woke up, the first thing I felt was him.

Warmth.

The slow, steady rhythm of a heartbeat pressed against my back.

Dmitri’s arms were still around me, possessive even in slumber. His body was a fortress built around mine.

I inhaled softly.

His scent—clean soap, cedar, and the faintest trace of smoke—wrapped around me. For one foolish moment, I didn’t want to move. Then reality clawed its way back in, and my skin prickled.

I shifted carefully, trying to slip away. But even half-asleep, his body reacted, tightening its hold—a reflex, protective or possessive, I couldn’t tell.

Turning within his embrace, I faced him. My breath caught.

Dmitri in sleep was a contradiction—peace carved into a man made of war.

His face, so near I could feel his breath ghost against my cheek, was a blend of everything I loved and everything I feared.

The boy I’d once known still lingered beneath the hardened lines: the soft mouth that used to smile only for me, the faint scar above his brow, a remnant of a fight he’d picked defending my honor. But the rest of him… the rest was unrecognizable.

Rugged. Sharpened by loss.

Even in repose, he looked like someone who’d survived too many winters. His lashes fanned against his cheekbones, dark against his skin, and the faint furrow between his brows never relaxed completely.

A soldier’s rest—even in sleep, he was never truly at peace.

And yet, this was the man who had humiliated me, who had tried to end my pregnancy, who had locked me away, and ultimately cast me aside for his ex-fiancée.

So why did my chest ache looking at him now?

A sharp knock shattered the stillness.

“Ma’am,” Giovanni’s deep voice rumbled through the door, gruff but respectful. “Your flight leaves in an hour. I believe you’re already dressing?”

I froze. Then carefully, I eased out of Dmitri’s arms.

His muscles tensed instinctively, but he didn’t wake. His breathing stayed even.

It startled me—he never slept this soundly.

Since our wedding, I could count on one hand the times I’d seen him rest. He’d slip into bed after I’d fallen asleep and be gone before dawn, as if the mattress burned him. But now, he lay sprawled across the sheets like a man who’d finally surrendered.

A monster shouldn’t look so human in sleep.

“I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Giovanni,” I called softly.

I crossed to the bathroom, closing the door behind me with a quiet click. Cold water stung my skin as I splashed it over my face, washing away the remnants of last night—the tears, the sweat, the confusion.

My reflection stared back. Pale. Shadowed. Alive.

For weeks, I’d been existing, not living. But something in me stirred now—a sliver of steel buried beneath the exhaustion. Dmitri might have dictated my departure, but I’d decide what came next.

I slipped into a simple navy-blue gown. The fabric hugged me softly, its modest elegance deliberate—a quiet armor. Jeans and shirts belonged to the girl who’d thought love could fix broken men. This dress was for the woman walking away from him.

Forty minutes later, I was ready. My hair was tied loosely at my nape, my face bare except for the hint of defiance in my eyes.

When I stepped back into the bedroom, Dmitri hadn’t moved much. One arm lay across the space I’d vacated, his fingers curled into the sheets, as if his body remembered even in dreams that I was supposed to be there.

Something twisted inside me. Guilt? Pity? Love? I wasn’t sure anymore.

I turned away before I could find out.

The hallway was hushed, the air heavy with the scent of polished oak and expensive silence.

My heels clicked against the marble floor, echoing through the villa’s vastness.

Giovanni stood waiting near the entrance, immaculate as ever in his black suit. He straightened when he saw me, broad shoulders squared, his scar catching the morning light.

“Bags are already in the car,” he said. “Dmitri asked that I ensure you arrive safely.”

Of course he did. Even when he sent me away, he needed to control how it happened.

“Did he give any other instructions?” I asked, my voice steady, betraying none of the ache clawing inside me.

Giovanni hesitated.

His gray eyes flickered with something like sympathy before he shook his head. “Just that you’re to rest. He said you’ve had enough storms for now.”

Storms.

If only he knew how many of them had his name.

I nodded. “Let’s go.”

As Giovanni opened the door, the crisp morning air of Lake Como swept in, cool and bittersweet. Behind me, the house loomed quiet and still, every corner holding memories I wanted to forget.

I didn’t look back—but I felt his presence anyway. Even asleep, Dmitri’s hold on me lingered.

And as the car pulled away from the villa, I couldn’t help wondering—was I really leaving him?

Or was this just another way he’d found to keep me tethered?

The drive was silent.

The SUV’s engine thrummed low and steady. Lake Como’s glittering edge glided by on my right.

I didn’t speak. Giovanni didn’t either.

Silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the soft whir of the air conditioner.

My eyes stayed fixed on the passing landscape, but my anger simmered quietly beneath the surface, coiling through my chest like smoke.

Giovanni might have been helpful, but he’d also helped lock me in that dark room.

He’d obeyed Dmitri’s every order, stood guard while I screamed behind soundproof walls, told himself it was duty. His loyalty wasn’t protection—it was a chain. One that bound all of us to Dmitri’s will.

When the SUV suddenly veered off the main road, my stomach lurched.

The lake disappeared behind a curtain of trees as Giovanni steered into a narrow gravel path, the tires crunching beneath us.

Wait—what are you doing?” I asked sharply, my voice slicing through the still air. “This route… it’s not taking us to the airport.”

He said nothing at first, his expression unreadable as the car rolled to a stop before a nondescript concrete building.

No sign, no windows on the lower floor—just steel doors and faded paint. It looked more like a safehouse than a clinic.

He turned to me finally, his scarred face set, eyes steady. “Remember those Russian doctors I mentioned?”

I blinked. “What about them?”

“I got them here,” he said, lowering his voice as if the trees could eavesdrop. “It cost me favors I can’t replace—and Dmitri can’t know. But you need to be checked. You’ve been through hell, Penelope. I had to make sure you’re strong enough to carry the baby.”

The words hit harder than I expected.

I looked at him for a long moment, torn between gratitude and fury.

Then I nodded once, my throat tight. “I still hate you, Giovanni,” I said quietly.

The admission came out softer than I intended, but the ache behind it was real. “You helped him break me. Don’t think this fixes it.”

He didn’t flinch. Just gave a small nod, resigned. “I don’t need forgiveness,” he said simply, stepping out of the car. “Just make it out of this alive.”

Cold morning air bit at my skin as I followed him inside.

The interior was sterile and minimalist—high white ceilings, steel fixtures, and a faint antiseptic tang in the air.

A low hum filled the room from unseen machines. It felt less like a clinic and more like a secret laboratory.

Two figures waited by a table.

A woman in her late thirties with sharp blue eyes and blonde hair pulled into a strict bun, and an older man with graying temples and the calm posture of someone used to bad news.

“Good morning, Mrs. Volkov,” the woman greeted warmly, her accent thick, Russian vowels softening her English. The title made my stomach twist. Mrs. Volkov. Soon it would be a name I no longer had to wear.

“Good morning,” I said, my tone polite but distant.

The older man inclined his head slightly. “I am Dr. Mikhail. This is Dr. Irina. Please, sit. We’ll start quickly—your time is limited, yes?”

I nodded and sank into a wide armchair, its plush fabric too soft for the setting.

Giovanni stayed near the door, arms folded, his broad shoulders filling the space like a silent sentry.

Dr. Irina began setting up a portable ultrasound on a metal tray, its faint beeping echoing through the room. “We’ll do a transabdominal scan to assess fetal viability,” she said, her tone efficient but gentle.

She rolled my dress slightly upward and spread cool gel over my abdomen.

The wand pressed against my skin.

The screen flickered.

And then—there it was.

A small, flickering pulse. Steady. Defiant.

“The fetus is stable,” Irina murmured, her eyes on the monitor. “Heartbeat strong—one hundred forty beats per minute.” She tilted the wand slightly, zooming in. “Subchorionic hematoma still visible, but smaller. No new bleeding.”

My breath hitched. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding it.

Dr. Mikhail adjusted the blood pressure cuff on my arm. It tightened with a hiss, the machine humming. “Vitals slightly elevated,” he observed. “But expected, given recent trauma and medication history.” He clipped an oximeter to my finger. “Oxygen saturation—ninety-eight percent. Good.”

Giovanni’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen, his jaw tense.

“Your lungs,” Mikhail continued, picking up a small device, “still show minor constriction. Possible asthma flare-ups. Let’s test capacity.” He handed me the spirometer. “Deep breath. Blow until it stops beeping.”

I followed his instructions, exhaling hard. The device chirped twice before flashing a green light.

“Better than we hoped,” Mikhail said, jotting notes into a tablet. “Your body is resilient, Mrs. Volkov. You’ve endured much.”

Endured.

That word sat heavy in my chest.

Giovanni stepped closer, his voice rough. “What does that mean—for the baby?”

Irina met his eyes. “It means she can carry, if she rests, avoids stress, and receives proper care. Any shock—emotional or physical—could change that.”

Her gaze flicked toward me, pointed.

I swallowed hard, forcing a steady nod. “Then I’ll rest,” I said softly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

For the first time, Giovanni’s expression softened. “Good,” he said quietly. “Then maybe all this wasn’t for nothing.”

But as I looked at the black-and-white image on the screen—the small, fluttering heartbeat that shouldn’t have survived—I couldn’t help but wonder if this miracle would only paint a bigger target on my back.

Hope floods me so fast my chest hurts. “What about the risks?” I ask. “They told me I could die carrying this.”

Dr. Irina’s tone is matter-of-fact, not cruel. “The subchorionic hematoma and your severe asthma make this high-risk. But with aggressive, targeted management, the fetus can survive. You’ll need strict monitoring and medication.”

Dr. Mikhail taps the tablet. “We’ll give one in-office injection now to bolster the lining and reduce clot expansion. You’ll leave with a regimen: daily vaginal progesterone to support the pregnancy, a bronchodilator inhaler and spacer for asthma control, and a short course of anti-inflammatories to stabilize the hematoma. Follow every instruction exactly.”

I stare at the tiny list like it’s a map out of a burning house.

Giovanni stepped closer, his voice low but razor-sharp. “This injection… the medications you plan for her afterward—these are experimental, correct? They haven’t been approved by the World Health Organization?”

“Correct. They aren’t on the WHO list.” Dr. Irina meets him without blinking. “But our protocol shows an eighty to ninety percent success rate in similar cases. We only proceed if the potential benefit outweighs the risk.”

They produce the vial.

As Mikhail draws the syringe, Giovanni lunges. His hand clamps over Irina’s wrist with the raw, animal force of a man who has seen too much and now refuses to lose someone else.

“No,” he says hoarsely, eyes wild. “Penelope… we’re leaving. Now. I won’t let you take these untested drugs—I won’t let you risk yourself like this!”

I feel the old fury snap awake — the part of me that will not be made small again. I yank my voice into a blade. “Giovanni. Step back.”

The order leaves my throat easier than I expect.

Giovanni’s grip tightens for a heartbeat then loosens. He glances at Irina, then at me, torn open between guilt and terror.

Irina’s voice is the steady keel that keeps the room from tipping. “Mr. Giovanni, I understand your concern, but we’ve had success with women facing similar complications. Simply resting, avoiding stress, isn’t always enough for her to carry this pregnancy to term. She needs these—what you call ‘untested’—medications. Everything is being monitored carefully. Nothing should go wrong, Mr. Giovanni.”

Giovanni’s jaw works.

His hands tremble, not entirely with anger now. “If anything goes wrong,” he mutters, low enough that only I hear the menace, “I’ll find you both and I will not forgive you.”

“Giovanni!” I snapped.

The older doctor’s expression never changes; he’s done this dance with frightened men before. “We can begin now,” Mikhail says. “It’s better not to delay.”

I press my hand flat to the warm skin of my belly, feeling the impossible smallness of the life there and the full weight of what I’m about to risk. “Do it,” I say, and the word is steadier than I feel. “If this fails, at least I’ll fail for something real.”

Irina swabs my arm with antiseptic; the liquid is cold and bracing.

The needle slips in — a dull pressure, the squeeze of a hand on the other end.

Giovanni watches as the solution vanishes into my vein, rage and fear warbling across his face.

When it’s done, Dr. Mikhail prints a list — progesterone dosing, inhaler schedule, emergency signs to watch for — and hands it to me with clinical kindness. “No heavy lifting. No travel until we’ve done a follow-up ultrasound in five days. If bleeding increases, contact us immediately.”

She handed me a small packet of pills, her tone brisk and professional. “One progesterone tablet each morning. Bronchodilator as needed for asthma. Anti-inflammatory, twice daily. We’ll monitor you remotely.”

Irina gives me one last professional smile. “We’ll arrange a follow-up. Rest, and do not stress.”

I nodded, clutching the packet as if it were salvation and curse all at once. My heart thrummed with something fragile—hope wrapped in fear.

This child—Dmitri’s child—was all I had left of the life I’d built and the man who had destroyed it.

Giovanni led me out, neither of us speaking.

In the car, silence swallowed us whole. Lake Como shimmered behind us, its beauty fading into mist as the road curved toward the airport. I watched it vanish through the glass, one chapter dissolving into another.

I wasn’t escaping as a broken prisoner anymore. I was walking away as a woman who had chosen her own survival—her child’s future—over his empire, his betrayal, his cage.

Whatever Dmitri planned—Seraphina, divorce, the ruin of my name—it didn’t matter. He’d taken my freedom once. He wouldn’t take my will again.