Twisted Addiction: Chapter 7

The cold water stung my face as I splashed it over my cheeks, desperate to rinse away the lingering horror of the nightmare.

It had felt too real—hands grabbing me out of the dark, voices jeering, shadows leaning close enough for me to smell their sweat. I could still feel fingers digging into my wrists, the press of a palm over my mouth, the helpless panic clawing up my throat.

It was like being dragged under a tide I couldn’t fight.

But as the icy droplets slid down my skin, clarity began to pierce the fog.

No, my uncles couldn’t have done that to me.

And the third figure in the dream—the one whose face I couldn’t see—it wasn’t Dmitri. It had my father’s broad shoulders, his heavy silhouette, but that was impossible.

It was just a dream, a twisted conjuring of my fears.

None of it was real.

None of it had ever happened.

I straightened, gripping the sink’s edge, my reflection staring back from the fogged mirror—pale, haunted, but unbroken.

I examined my inner thighs discreetly, my fingers brushing the skin for any sign of violation.

Nothing.

Dmitri had sworn he hadn’t touched me in my sleep, and despite everything, his flat denial carried a weight of truth.

The man was a monster, but he’d never crossed that line.

Still, the nightmare’s claws lingered, and a dark part of me wondered if it had surfaced because he’d been there, watching me sleep, his presence a catalyst for my subconscious fears.

Could I trust a man whose heart seemed capable of such cruelty?

I shook off the thought, brushed my teeth with mechanical precision, and stepped out of the bathroom, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders as I sank onto the bed.

The room was dim, the heavy curtains blocking out Lake Como’s deceptive beauty, but Dmitri Volkov was still there, seated in his chair like a dark sentinel.

He’d dragged it closer to the bed, his piercing gaze fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

“Why are you watching me while I sleep?” I snapped, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

It came out harsher than I meant, but I needed it that way—needed the edge to mask the unease curling in my stomach. “Planning how to kill me?”

His eyes didn’t flicker, not even once.

“No.” The word landed like a gunshot—flat, unshaken. “I don’t plan things like that, Penelope. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t wake up to ask the question.”

My chin lifted, defiance warring with the tremor in my chest.

“Then do it,” I dared, the words tasting like iron on my tongue.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his stare narrowing into something colder than steel.

A faint, humorless smirk touched his lips. “You don’t give me orders,” he murmured, voice edged like a knife. “And let this be the last time you accuse me of touching you in your sleep.”

His words were measured, but there was an edge to them, as if my earlier accusation still festered, a wound he was battling to disprove.

I froze, the words sinking in like ice in my veins.

My chest tightened, heartbeat hammering against my ribs. He had never—would never—violate me, and yet the memory of my nightmare lingered, clawing at the edges of my mind.

My stomach growled loudly, a reminder of the hunger I’d ignored in the chaos of the day.

I stood, brushing past him without a glance. “I need to eat.”

He didn’t respond, but I felt his gaze trailing me like a physical weight as I left the room, my bare feet silent on the polished hardwood floors.

The kitchen was a haven of stainless steel and gleaming marble, but my mood soured the moment I saw Giovanni at the counter, chopping vegetables with a precision that bordered on obsessive.

The faint aroma of garlic and herbs filled the air, but his presence was an unwelcome intrusion.

I moved to the opposite side of the island, grabbing a bag of coffee beans and a loaf of crusty sourdough bread to make myself a quick meal—a strong espresso and a grilled cheese sandwich with a smear of spicy mustard for a kick.

Without looking at me, Giovanni spoke, his voice casual but probing. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’m making coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich,” I said curtly, measuring out the beans. “I don’t need your help.”

He continued stirring a pot of creamy mushroom risotto, the steam rising in soft curls. “I’m preparing this for the boss—risotto, no spice, just how he likes it. Maybe you two could share?”

“No, thank you,” I snapped, my hands moving faster as I buttered the bread. “And what, he doesn’t eat spice?”

“Nope,” Giovanni replied, still focused on his task. “He’s allergic to it.”

I raised an eyebrow, surprised. “What happens when he does?”

“Let’s just say it’s not pretty,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone as he stirred the risotto with a wooden spoon, the grains glistening under the kitchen lights. “Hives, swelling, chaos. He avoids it like the plague.”

I snorted, flipping my sandwich onto the sizzling pan.

“Well, I’m not eating that bland vegetarian slop with him. I like spice.”

“I could add some chili flakes to yours,” he offered, still engrossed in his cooking, the risotto now perfectly creamy as he sprinkled in a pinch of parmesan.

“Which part of ‘I’m not eating with him’ don’t you understand?” I retorted, my voice sharp as I pressed the sandwich down with a spatula, the cheese oozing satisfyingly.

Giovanni smirked, unfazed, wiping his hands on a towel as he finished his prep.

He turned to me at last, his scarred face lit with a knowing glint.

I glared at him, my sandwich now golden and crisp.

“What?” I demanded, my tone rising.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“If you have something to say, say it.” I said, my voice dripping with a jovial cruelty, a spark of defiance flaring as I plated my sandwich and poured the espresso, the rich aroma grounding me.

“You really believe all he feels for you is hate?” he said, picking up a tray with the risotto, a glass of water, and a neatly folded napkin.

I scoffed, cutting my sandwich with a knife, the blade flashing under the light. “Believe? I’ve lived it. You don’t need eyes to feel hate burn through a room.”

He smirked again, a secretive edge to it, and walked out with the tray balanced expertly in his hands.

I stared after him, wondering what he was insinuating.

Did he think there was more to Dmitri’s cold exterior? The idea was laughable, but it lingered, a thorn in my thoughts.

I finished preparing my meal—a steaming cup of espresso and the grilled cheese, its spicy mustard bite exactly what I needed—and was about to head to the living room when Giovanni reappeared.

“I can carry that for you—wherever you’d like to eat,” he offered, his tone too polite, too accommodating.

“I have hands,” I said, gripping the tray tightly. “If I can cook, I can carry it. I’m not porcelain.”

He smirked again, stepping closer. “I broke protocol by letting you near that stove. The boss won’t like it.

I only allowed it because I can’t cook for both of you at once. But… let me, Penelope.”

I clenched my jaw, anger flaring.

“No.” I tried to brush past him, but he stepped in front of me, his expression shifting from polite to insistent.

“Let me,” he said, no longer asking, his hands already reaching for the tray.

Before I could protest further, he took it with a practiced ease, leaving me no choice.

I sighed, relenting. “Fine. After you.”

He carried the tray like a seasoned waiter, leading me out of the kitchen.

We passed through the grand dining room, where Dmitri sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his risotto before him, his posture regal, like a king presiding over his court.

I averted my gaze, pretending I hadn’t stolen a glance at him from the corner of my eye, and kept walking toward the living room.

“Ma’am,” Giovanni called, stopping me in my tracks.

I turned to see him placing my tray on the table—directly opposite Dmitri’s seat.

My stomach twisted. “That’s not where I want to eat,” I said, my voice tight.

“That’s where the boss wants you to eat,” Giovanni replied matter-of-factly, then turned and hurried away before I could argue.

So that was the plan.

He hadn’t offered to carry my tray out of kindness; he’d been herding me to Dmitri’s side, forcing me into this unwanted proximity.

Rage simmered beneath my skin, but I plastered a defiant smirk across my face.

“I despise this butler,” I said, letting the words roll off my tongue like a challenge. “Can you replace him?”

Dmitri’s gaze lifted slowly, eyes icy and unreadable, pinning me in place as if I were a mere insect under a microscope. “What you hate or like holds no weight in my house,” he said, flat, final.

The words hit harder than any blow, but I forced myself to mask the sting, reminding myself I was still a prisoner here, my autonomy a fragile illusion.

I adjusted my posture, pretending I had rights I didn’t.

He returned to his meal, indifferent, as if my defiance were nothing more than background noise.

Defiance coiled quietly in my veins as I moved toward the dining table.

I reached for the tray, intent on carrying it to the living room, anywhere but here, when his hand shot out, gripping my arm with a firmness that stopped me cold.

“Sit,” he ordered, his voice low and commanding.

“No.” I yanked against his hold, my pulse spiking, but his grip didn’t budge.

“Sit, Penelope,” he repeated, his tone unyielding, his icy blue eyes boring into mine with an intensity that made the air feel thin.

“No.” I twisted my arm again, desperation creeping in, but in a swift, fluid motion, he rose from his chair and pulled me to his side with a gentleness that felt alien, almost disorienting.

Before I could process it, he guided me down onto his lap, my body settling against his as if I weighed nothing.

The sudden intimacy sent a jolt through me, my insecurities crashing like a tidal wave.

My plus-size frame felt heavier than ever, the old wounds of his past body-shaming words slicing through my mind.

Yet, his hands—one resting possessively on my thigh, the other steadying my waist—held me with a confidence that made me feel light, almost delicate.

The heat of his body seeped into mine, sparking an electric current I hated to acknowledge, a flutter of butterflies in my stomach that betrayed my resolve.

His touch, firm yet careful, ignited a warmth I didn’t want to feel, a dangerous pull that made my breath catch.

I squirmed, not out of disgust but out of fear—fear that he’d soon mock my weight, that this moment of tenderness was a prelude to cruelty.

“Let me go,” I said, pushing against him, but his grip tightened, keeping me pinned to his lap.

“You’re hungry, no?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft, his hand on my thigh sending a shiver up my spine that I couldn’t suppress.

“I… I am…” I stammered, my usual fire flickering under the weight of his proximity. “But I don’t want to eat here.”

My boldness had evaporated, replaced by a strange, disarming vulnerability, as if his touch had siphoned my defiance.

His left hand remained on my thigh, a steady anchor, while his right hand reached for his spoon, scooping a portion of his bland risotto.

He raised it to my lips, the gesture so intimate it felt like a violation.

I turned my head sharply, glaring at the spoon. “I don’t need you to feed me. And I don’t like food without spice—I made my own.”

He set the spoon down with a deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine.

“I’m hungry too,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur.

“Then eat,” I shot back, gesturing to his untouched plate.

He grunted, a low, primal sound, and leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Not for this,” he said, nodding at the risotto. “For you, my wife.”

Heat flooded my cheeks, a fierce blush I couldn’t hide, and I tried to stand, desperate to escape before he saw how his words affected me.

But his hands tightened, keeping me firmly in place, and I felt it—a subtle shift beneath me, the unmistakable hardening of his arousal pressing against me through his trousers.

My breath caught, heat and heartbreak colliding as flashes of that night—his touch, his whisper, the way he held me like I was salvation—flooded my mind.

The passion, the intensity—and the abandonment that followed.

He’d left me after that, vanishing for months, leaving me to drown in loneliness and doubt.

He was my husband, yes, but I wouldn’t be his toy, used and discarded again.

“I’m not having sex with you,” I declared, my voice firm despite the tremor in my hands.

He smirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “We’ll see.”

He released me, his hands lingering a moment too long before falling away. “Go on, eat your food. But it’s happening here, right in front of me.”

I seized the chance to scramble off his lap, my heart pounding as I moved to the opposite side of the table where my tray waited.

I reached for it, intent on fleeing, but his voice cut through the air, heavy with dominance. “You will eat here, Penelope.”

Though he hadn’t raised his voice, the command carried a weight that made me flinch.

My body betrayed me, sinking into the chair as if drawn by an invisible force, my resolve crumbling under his gaze.

I could feel his eyes on me, a relentless pressure boring into my skin, watching every move as I lifted the sandwich to my lips.

The spicy mustard burned my tongue, a small act of rebellion, but his stare unnerved me.

I tried to feign boldness, focusing on the food, but my hands trembled slightly with each bite.

By the third sip of espresso, the ritual of eating grounded me, and I let myself relax, my stomach finally filling.

As I snipped at the sandwich, I glanced up, expecting to find him preoccupied with his own meal—but his eyes were still locked on me, unblinking, as if he drew more satisfaction from watching me eat than from anything on his own plate.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, the crisp linen cool against my lips, and met his gaze, my heart stuttering under the intensity.

“I should leave,” I said, pushing my chair back.

“And leave your husband stranded?” His tone was mocking, his lips curving into a faint, cruel smile.

“Stranded, huh?” I let out a dry chuckle, standing fully now. “I’m not making the same mistake twice, no matter how much you tempt me. You left me, Dmitri. And you’ll do it again the moment I give you what you want.”

“Sit,” he ordered, his voice a whip-crack of authority.

I hesitated, my feet rooted to the floor, his glare pinning me in place.

Slowly, I lowered myself back into the chair, hating how easily he could pull me into compliance, how my own body betrayed me by obeying. “I won’t let you—”

“I heard you, Penelope.” His voice sliced through mine like a blade, rough, the muscles in his forearm flexing as his fist curled against the table.

Veins rose beneath his skin, a map of restrained violence.

He leaned forward, the air between us tightening, his presence eclipsing everything else.

The scent of his cologne, the dark weight of his stare—it was like being dragged beneath a wave you couldn’t fight.

“You’re my wife,” he murmured, the words more dangerous for how quiet they were. “And sex isn’t something you get to dangle over me like a weapon.”

“Well, I didn’t become your wife by choice, did I?” I fired back, my voice steady but my fingers gripping the edge of the chair like claws. “I’m more like a prisoner in your gilded cage.”

His jaw flexed, a muscle ticking as something flickered across his face—anger, guilt, maybe both. “You have access to everything I own,” he said, his tone hard but quieter now, like he was holding himself back. “Every privilege a boss’s wife could want. And you still call yourself a prisoner?”

I let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “A cage lined with silk is still a cage.”

His eyes darkened, the blue deepening into something cold and dangerous.

His hand twitched slightly on the table, a subtle warning beneath the ice of his tone. “Would you rather I took my desire elsewhere?” The words were slow, deliberate, a razor hidden in silk. “Tell me, Penelope—should I be hunting someone else while you sulk in defiance?”

“I swear, if you cheat, I’ll do the same,” I said, each word deliberate, a blade I didn’t quite know how to wield.

My pulse hammered but my chin stayed high.

He went still. The kind of stillness that felt like a gun being cocked. When he finally leaned back, it was slow, predatory, his knuckles pale against the table.

A smirk tugged at his mouth, cold and merciless. “No,” he murmured. “You won’t.”

“Yes,” I shot back, softer but steadier, daring him anyway. “I will.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing with a predator’s patience, his jaw flexing as though grinding down the taste of his own rage.

Then—crack—his palms slammed against the table.

The sound ricocheted through the room, a fork skittering off the edge and clattering to the floor.

Before I could draw a breath, he was moving—three long, lethal strides—and suddenly he was there, looming over me.