Twisted Addiction: Chapter 3

Isat upright, arms crossed tight over my chest, my whole body wound like a spring. “He’s not running any fucking test on me. You didn’t give a damn when I told you I was pregnant.”

My voice climbed, sharp with fury. “You said I didn’t deserve to carry your child. Your words, Dmitri. So why pretend now that you care?”

His head tilted, eyes narrowing with that infuriating calm—like I was some delusional creature he had to manage instead of the woman he’d abandoned. “You’ll let the doctor examine you, Penelope. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

I barked a bitter laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. “Or what? You’ll put a gun to my head like Antonio? Break me until I bend?” I ripped the duvet off and swung my legs to the floor.

The world tilted sideways, dizziness clawing at me, but I forced myself to stand, spine locked straight.

I glared at him, my chin lifted in challenge. “Go on, Dmitri. Show me what forcing looks like.”

He didn’t move at first. Just watched me, his gaze narrowing as if measuring the exact point where defiance turned into stupidity. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pushed off the wall.

Each step he took toward me was soundless, but the air grew heavier, until I could barely draw breath. By the time he stopped in front of me, I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes.

“You think you’re in a position to make demands?” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, the kind of softness that made my skin prickle. “You defy me, Penelope, and I will show you what forcing looks like. Don’t test me.”

His hand lifted—not to strike, not to shove—but to catch my jaw, holding me still. His thumb pressed lightly against my chin, not cruel, but firm enough to remind me he owned the moment.

“You’ll sit down,” he said, each word clipped. “You’ll let the doctor examine you. And you’ll thank me for even caring enough to ask.”

My pulse thundered, my body torn between the urge to recoil and the shameful heat of being caught in his gravity again.

I stood my ground, my lungs burning as if an asthma attack were brewing just beneath the surface, tightening my chest with every ragged breath.

“Sir… there is…” The doctor’s eyes were fixed on something behind me, his voice hesitant as he tried to catch Dmitri’s attention.

Dmitri’s gaze shifted, and his expression darkened.

He barked at the doctor, “Get the fuck out. Now!”

The doctor scrambled out, door clicking shut behind him.

Confused, I turned, scanning the bed for whatever had caught their eye.

“You’re bleeding,” Dmitri said, his tone unnervingly calm.

I frowned.

Bleeding? Again? The thought sent a fresh wave of panic through me.

I quickly twisted my body so he couldn’t see my back anymore, but the shame burned hot in my cheeks. Both men had seen it. Seen me like that—vulnerable, exposed.

Mortified, I rushed to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

My hands shook as I unbuttoned my jeans, peeling them down along with my underwear.

There it was—fresh blood staining the fabric, seeping through. I turned on the shower, letting the water heat up as I stripped off the rest, stepping under the scalding spray.

The steam filled the room, but it couldn’t wash away the embarrassment clawing at me. How had I not felt it? How had they seen before I did?

As I scrubbed my skin again, the water turning pink at my feet, I noticed the blood wasn’t like my usual menstrual flow.

It was thicker, clotted, almost gelatinous—dark and ominous. My stomach twisted in knots, fear gripping me tighter than before. This wasn’t normal. This could mean… No. I couldn’t even think it. The baby had to be okay. But the doubt gnawed at me, amplifying every ache in my body.

I stayed under the water longer than necessary, letting it pound against my back until my skin prickled. Finally, I shut it off, wrapped myself in a fresh towel, and stepped out, my hair dripping onto the floor.

I rushed to my corner of the wardrobe, dropping the towel just long enough to pull on a clean pair of panties and a simple top—loose and comfortable, nothing that would constrict or remind me of the mess.

The embarrassment lingered like a shadow, making my movements quick and jerky.

Dmitri was still in the room, now seated at his desk, his posture rigid as he scrolled through something on his phone.

I walked over, forcing my voice to steady. “I need to see a doctor.” I knew something was wrong—deeply wrong—and I had to know if I still carried my baby, or if I was putting whatever was left at risk by waiting.

He rose from the desk, unfolding to his full height until he was looming over me, the shadow of him swallowing the space between us. “Your period?” His voice was sharp—clinical, not tender.

I looked away, avoiding those piercing eyes. “How many days was I kidnapped for?”

“I got you out in forty-eight hours,” he said flatly. “For a price you can’t imagine.”

“Like I care what it cost you?” I retorted, fury bubbling up again.

“I didn’t pay with money,” he replied, the faintest flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

I snapped my gaze back to him. “Again—I don’t care. You disgust me, Dmitri.” The words came out like venom. “When are you planning your next vanishing act? Another four months? A year? Two? Or will you just send another text telling me what I don’t deserve?”

His eyes darkened, the calm mask cracking just enough for me to see the storm beneath.

In two strides he was in front of me, the desk digging into the back of my thighs as he closed in. One hand braced the wood beside me, the other gripping my chin, forcing me to look up at him.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice a low growl against my skin. “You think you hate me? You’ve barely begun to understand what hate costs. I pulled you out of Antonio’s hands, Penelope. Do you know what I risked? What I bled for?”

His thumb pressed harder against my jaw, not cruel enough to bruise, but enough to remind me he could.

“You won’t speak to me of disappearing,” he hissed, leaning so close his breath ghosted across my cheek. “Because whether I’m in this room or across the ocean, I’m in you. You don’t get rid of me, Penelope. Ever.”

He held my gaze a beat longer—dark, unreadable—before straightening, the heat of him retreating as he turned toward the door. “Now get up,” he said, voice like steel. “We’re going to the doctor. We’ll see if you’re carrying my child.”

He paused on the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder, his tone low and almost dangerous. “And for your sake, I hope you are.”

I stood frozen, my knees weak, his words echoing like chains tightening around me. Then, slowly, I forced myself forward, each step dragging me closer to him, closer to a truth I wasn’t sure I could bear.

My hands trembled at my sides, betraying me.

I wanted to scream, to claw my way out of this nightmare, but instead I kept walking. Because beneath the fury, beneath the fear, a cruel flicker of hope gnawed at me. That maybe the child was still there. That maybe this wasn’t the end.

And I hated myself for it. For clinging to the smallest thread of salvation from the very man who had shattered me.

As the door closed behind us, the hall stretched ahead—dark, endless. My heart was a storm, and with every step I wondered: was I walking toward deliverance… or my undoing?

Once we stepped into the sleek black SUV, Dmitri slid into the driver’s seat with that predatory grace of his, while I claimed the passenger side, buckling in with trembling hands.

The engine purred to life, a low rumble that did nothing to drown out the storm raging inside me.

I stared at him.

My chest tightened, words bubbling up like poison I couldn’t hold back.

“You married me because you wanted an heir, didn’t you?” My voice cut through the hum of the engine. “Yet you told me I wasn’t worthy of carrying your child. You said fucking me was nothing more than marking me as yours.”

My nails bit into my palms, drawing crescents in my skin. “You need an heir within a year or you’ll lose your empire, right? So tell me, Dmitri—if I can’t give you one, do you already have another woman waiting to breed your heir?”

His gaze flicked toward me, just once, but the weight of it pinned me to the seat. His grip on the wheel tightened, the leather creaking beneath his hands, knuckles straining bone-white.

“Yes,” he said, voice smooth as a blade. “I need an heir before I turn thirty-one. That’s the law of my world. No heir, no empire.” His lips curved—not in a smile, but something colder. “But I didn’t marry you for that.”

The SUV seemed smaller as he went on, his tone calm, precise, merciless. “I married you because you made me a promise when you were fifteen. And because I will never forgive what your parents stole from me. You belong to me, Penelope—for blood, for debt, for punishment.”

His eyes slid to mine again, and the faintest flicker of something feral moved in their depths. “I never said you weren’t worthy of carrying my child. I never said touching you was just about claiming what’s mine. Stop rewriting the truth to fit your pain.” His voice dropped lower, darker, vibrating through the space between us. “If I wanted to brand you, you’d carry my mark where no one could ever erase it.”

The air thickened, poisoned by his hate-laced obsession, by the dangerous certainty that he’d rather destroy me than let me go.

I smirked bitterly, turning to gaze out the window at the blurring landscape of Lake Como’s winding roads, the serene water mocking my turmoil.

I wished I could hurl something at his smug face again, anything to shatter that composure.

“Such audacity,” I whispered, then louder, “such audacity to sit there and lie to my face—when you clearly texted me. Or have you already forgotten your own words?”

The SUV vibrated with silence, his profile carved in stone, while my own voice splintered.

My voice cracked like glass as I went on.

“The day Antonio dragged me away—do you even remember that day?” My throat burned.

“I was doubled over with pain, clutching my stomach, blood soaking through my clothes, alone and terrified I was losing the baby. I called you—again and again—my hands shaking so badly I could barely press the screen. And you didn’t answer. Not once. I texted until my fingers went numb.”

My fingers curled tight on my knees. “I told you I was carrying your child—four months along—that I needed a doctor or there could be complications. And do you know what you replied?” My voice trembled, raw. “You told me to erase the child—and you—from my mind. Like we were nothing. Like I was nothing.”

Tears pricked hot at my lashes. “You said the night we shared wasn’t love, it was just you claiming me like property. You said I didn’t deserve to carry your heir.”

My throat burned; the words tumbled out faster. “You said you were punishing me with silence and endless loneliness, that it was only the beginning. That I would beg for death and death wouldn’t come.”

I turned on him then, the tears finally breaking loose, streaking down my cheeks. “Tell me, Dmitri. How much more do you want to take from me? How many more punishments until you’ve had your fill?”

He kept his eyes on the road, jaw locked so tight a vein pulsed at his temple.

“You’re speaking of words I never sent. Messages that don’t exist.”

His tone wasn’t dismissive—it was possessive, darkly amused.

“You didn’t even have my number? So how the hell could you have texted me?” he added without looking, as though I wasn’t worth even a glance from the road ahead.

“I texted you, and you replied!” I screamed, my voice ricocheting off the SUV’s walls.

Fury and grief tore through me; before I could stop myself, I lunged and slammed my fist into his arm—hard enough to jolt the wheel.

The car swerved a fraction, but he corrected it instantly, expression unreadable, as if my outburst hadn’t even touched him.

Pain shot up my knuckles, but it was nothing compared to the hollow ache clawing at my chest.

He slowed the car, but not because of my outburst; we’d arrived at the hospital’s underground garage, the fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows.

He parked with precision, killing the engine before turning to me fully, his presence overwhelming in the tight space.

“I abandoned you for four months, yes. It’s my way of breaking you with solitude and loneliness—molding you until you’re utterly mine. But there’s no world where I’d know you’re carrying my child and not claim you immediately. I am heartless, Penelope, but not when it comes to what’s mine. You’d be under my watch, every breath, every heartbeat monitored. I’d never let you slip away like that.”

I fumbled in my pocket instinctively, as if I could pull out my phone and shove the evidence in his face—but it was back at the house, useless now. “I’m not imagining things, and I’m not mad. I know what I saw, what I read.”

He reached out, his fingers gentle yet insistent as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering too long, tracing the shell possessively.

“It’s no secret I’ll keep breaking you,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on the windshield, “until there’s nothing left but the part of you that clings to me… needs me.” His voice dipped, darker. “But there are lines even I don’t cross.”

Then he stepped out, leaving me no choice but to follow, my mind reeling.

This man was making me doubt my own sanity. I was a hundred percent sure of those heart-wrenching texts, yet here he was, denying them with such conviction it gnawed at my resolve.

We walked into the private clinic side by side, the automatic doors whispering open to reveal a sterile lobby bathed in soft, clinical light.

A doctor approached immediately—a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses, his white coat impeccably pressed.

“Mr. Volkov,” he greeted with a nod of familiarity, his tone deferential, as if Dmitri were a regular benefactor or something more intimidating. “Always a pleasure. And this must be your wife. How can I assist today?”

Dmitri placed a possessive hand on the small of my back, steering me forward. “Dr. Rossi, my wife needs immediate tests. Pregnancy confirmation and any complications. No delays.”

I swallowed, my throat dry as I explained under the doctor’s kind but probing gaze. “I’ve been… bleeding. It started heavily before I was taken, and now it’s happening again—thick, clotted, not like my normal period. I’m terrified I’ve lost the baby, or that something’s wrong.”

Dr. Rossi nodded thoughtfully, jotting notes on his tablet. “Spotting or heavier bleeding in early pregnancy can indicate several issues—possibly a threatened miscarriage, where the placenta is detaching partially, or even an ectopic pregnancy if the implantation is outside the uterus. We’ll need blood work for hCG levels, an ultrasound to check viability, and perhaps a pelvic exam. Let’s get you to the exam room right away.”

He led us down a quiet hallway, but Dmitri’s hand tightened on my arm, his eyes scanning every corner as if threats lurked in the shadows.

“Mr. Volkov, would you mind stepping out?” the doctor asked carefully.

Dmitri didn’t even blink. “No one touches her without my eyes on them.” His voice was laced with that obsessive edge, like I was a priceless artifact he couldn’t risk losing.

Dr. Rossi hesitated but nodded, accustomed to Dmitri’s demands.

In the exam room, I changed into a gown behind a screen, my heart pounding as the doctor prepared the ultrasound machine.

Dmitri stood like a sentinel in the corner, arms crossed, his gaze never leaving me—intense, proprietary, as if even this medical intrusion was a violation he tolerated only for my sake.

The tests were quick but invasive: blood drawn, the cold gel on my abdomen for the transabdominal ultrasound, then the more uncomfortable transvaginal probe to get a clearer view.

Dmitri’s jaw tightened during it all, his fists clenching at his sides, but he said nothing, just watched with that unyielding possessiveness.

Afterward, we returned to a private waiting area—a plush room with leather chairs and muted lighting.

I sat rigidly, refusing to look at Dmitri, my arms wrapped around myself. Anger simmered beneath the surface, but nervousness clawed at me harder—what if the baby was gone? What if this was the end of everything? My foot tapped incessantly, betraying my fear.

Barely thirty minutes later, Dr. Rossi returned, clipboard in hand, his expression grave.

I bolted upright, heart hammering so violently it felt like it would shatter my ribs. “What is it? Is the baby okay?”

He motioned for me to sit, but my legs refused to obey.

“Mrs. Volkov, the ultrasound shows the fetus is still viable. Heartbeat detected, approximately sixteen weeks along,” he said, his voice steady but serious. “However, you’re experiencing a subchorionic hematoma—a pocket of blood between the uterine wall and the chorionic membrane. It’s causing the bleeding and, given its size, it puts the pregnancy at high risk.”

My chest tightened.

“More concerning,” he continued, “your uterus is bicornuate—a congenital malformation. Essentially, it’s heart-shaped, divided into two ‘horns.’ This reduces space for the fetus to grow and significantly increases the risk of miscarriage.”

The words landed like a hammer to my skull.

“The fetus is implanted in the smaller horn,” he said gently, “which isn’t capable of supporting a full-term pregnancy. We recommend termination to prevent severe complications—massive hemorrhage, uterine rupture, or even life-threatening outcomes. Without intervention, the bleeding will likely continue because of both the hematoma and the poor implantation.”

My world tilted. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head fiercely. “I won’t. I can’t. This baby… it’s all I have. I’ll fight for it. I swear I will.”

He swallowed, his expression carefully neutral. “I must be honest—your uterus isn’t designed to carry a child safely, not this one, not future pregnancies. The structure itself poses persistent risks: miscarriage, preterm labor, and hemorrhage. This isn’t about willpower—it’s a physical limitation.”

Fear slammed into me like icy waves, leaving me trembling and hollow.

“Are you saying… I’ll never have a child? That this… this is it for me?” My voice cracked.

Dr. Rossi’s tone softened, blending compassion with professionalism. “Yes. Unfortunately, a bicornuate uterus makes full-term pregnancies extremely rare and high-risk. But it’s not the end. Surrogacy, adoption—there are ways to have a child. You can still build a family, with careful planning and support.”

I sank to the floor, knees trembling.

My hands clutched my stomach as the weight of reality pressed down. Everything I had imagined, everything I had hoped for… was hanging by the thinnest thread.

Dr. Rossi leaned forward, persuasive. “Please reconsider the termination. Continuing could lead to life-threatening issues for you both. We can schedule it today—it’s the safest path.”

His words blurred.

My pulse roared in my ears, like a storm pounding against thin glass.

“No.” My voice cracked, but it was iron beneath the break. I wrapped my arms tighter around myself, as if holding my baby closer. “No. I won’t. I’ll take the risks—bed rest, hospitals, whatever it takes. But I won’t end this pregnancy.”

Dmitri remained eerily quiet through it all, a dark monolith in the corner of the room. His face was carved from stone—no flicker of anger, no sign of grief, no hand reaching for mine. Just stillness. Just silence.

I forced myself to look up at him, but it felt like staring at a stranger.

He sat there like a statue of judgment.

My heart cracked at the emptiness between us.

“So… what now?” My voice came out small, fragile, almost unrecognizable to my own ears. “How do you see me now?” The words trembled as they escaped. “Useless? Unremarkable? Unable to give you the heir you craved—the heir you need in less than a year?”

The room felt colder after the question, as though the air itself had withdrawn, waiting for his verdict.

He stood slowly, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s go.”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight, and followed him out into the crisp air. The cold bit at my skin, but it couldn’t touch the heaviness settling in my chest. Every step felt like walking through molasses.

“So… do we divorce, then?” My voice trembled, small and fragile against the wind. “Because I… I can’t give you a child.”

He paused mid-stride, turning to me with those cold, piercing eyes that seemed to bore straight through my chest.

“Divorce?” His voice was low, dripping with contempt.

His lips curled into something close to a sneer. “You think you can walk away from me, Penelope? You belong to me. Body, blood, and breath. Divorce isn’t just impossible—it’s inconceivable. Not in this life. Not in mine. You’ll stay by my side until the last breath leaves your body—and even then, I’ll find you.”

A shiver ran down my spine, the weight of his obsession pressing on my ribs, heavy and suffocating.

“You’re wrong, Dmitri.” The voice came from behind us, deep and steady, slicing through the tension like a blade. “Divorce… is very much possible.”

I turned, my breath catching at the sight of a tall man approaching—handsome and gorgeous in a rugged way, his skin etched with intricate tattoos that snaked up his arms and peeked from the collar of his fitted shirt, telling stories of rebellion and ink.

His dark hair was tousled, eyes a warm hazel that contrasted sharply with Dmitri’s ice.

“Penelope,” he said, his focus solely on me, as if Dmitri were invisible. “Lake Como has a court that oversees all judicial matters and enforces the law. Any wife in this territory can file for divorce if the marriage becomes untenable. In fact… I’m one of the privileged lawyers here. I could guide you through every step, make sure your rights are protected.”

Silence stretched between the three of us, thick and charged. Then he forced a cruel smirk, extending his hand. “Alexei.” When I hesitated, he added smoothly, “Alexei Volkov—Dmitri’s brother.”

“Foster younger brother,” Dmitri corrected sharply, his voice a low growl, as if reasserting hierarchy.

To think I’d never met any of Dmitri’s family.

There was no resemblance between them: Dmitri was all sharp angles and towering intimidation, his build lean and lethal like a blade, while Alexei exuded a broader, more athletic ruggedness, his tattoos and easy charisma making him seem approachable, almost defiant in his uniqueness.

I started to reach for his hand, drawn by the unexpected kindness, but Dmitri’s command sliced through. “Don’t.”

My hand drew back instinctively, and Alexei withdrew his with a knowing chuckle, the tension crackling like electricity.