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Chapter 21 — The Invisible Scars

Author: Déesse
last update Petsa ng paglalathala: 2026-02-20 01:01:32

The return to the world is a slow agony. Every nerve screams, every muscle protests. Pain is a leaden weight chaining me to the hospital bed, then to the one in the penthouse. The doctors speak of cracked ribs, concussion, deep contusions. They do not speak of the interior fracture, the one that has spread among the three of us.

Eva

They treat me like blown glass, a unique and irreplaceable piece that nearly shattered. Sasha doesn't leave me. He sleeps on a couch in the room, waking at the slig
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  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 73: THE PREDATOR'S INSTINCT 2

    DianeWith a fluid movement and a strength that takes my breath away, he rises from his armchair, pulling me with him. He forces me to stand, then, with a dry twist of my wrists, spins me around and presses my back against his chest, my arms still twisted behind me. His chest is a wall against my back. His breath is warm against my ear.— The impulse is understandable, he whispers, his voice a dangerous velvet. After the night you've had. But it was stupid. You're not a killer. You're an angry little girl with a toy.The contempt in his voice is worse than a blow. He peels the knife from my numb fingers. I hear it clink as he tosses it carelessly onto the low table.— You see? he continues. Even asleep, I'm stronger than you. Even unarmed, I control you. You couldn't win. You will never win.He suddenly releases one of my hands, but only to wrap his arm around my waist, trapping me against him. His other hand keeps my righ

  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 72 : THE PREDATOR'S INSTINCT 1

    DianeDawn is a betrayal. It doesn't bring light, only shades of gray, detailing with cruel precision the scene of my imprisonment: the cold gilding, the luxurious fabrics that smother, the slumbering silhouette of the monster in his armchair. His breathing is steady, deep. A light snore, almost human, escapes his lips. This normalcy is the worst insult.My body is still lying on the bed, motionless as a tomb effigy. But inside, everything is frantic movement, a silent whirlwind stirring Liam's ashes and forging them into a single blade, into an irrepressible, primal need. Haste, suddenly, is everything. The idea of waiting one more day, one more hour, in this bubble where his scent, his breath, his very existence pollute the air, is unbearable.The plan isn't one. It's an impulse. A crack in the wall of ice I just built. The vengeance-creator is briefly overwhelmed by the wounded animal that wants to bite, right now, even if it means getting crush

  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 71: THE SILENCE OF THE DEAD 2

    DianeBut it's not fatigue or horror that strikes me. It's the expression. Or rather, the absence of expression. The face is smooth, as if sculpted from alabaster. The eyes, though immense, reflect nothing. They look, they absorb, but they give nothing back. It's the gaze of a predator who has seen its own reflection in blood.I run the water in the solid gold basin. It's scalding. I soak a fine linen cloth and begin to scrub. I scrub my knee first, with methodical energy, until the skin is red and irritated, until the last trace of him has disappeared. Then I clean my shoulder, the bite. The pain is sharp, precise. I feel it as a demarcation. Here, is Volkov's wound. Here, was Liam's blood. I separate them. I catalog them.I don't take a bath. Immersion would be too intimate, too close to forgiveness. I wash with a cloth, standing up, like a soldier after a battle. Each movement is rational, necessary.When I emerge, wrapped in a white silk robe of obsce

  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 70 : THE SILENCE OF THE DEAD 1

    DianeThe silence after the gunshot is a living entity. It settles, dense, heavy, replacing the very air. It absorbs the last echo of my own broken voice, the guards' grunts, Volkov's breathing. It clings to the padded walls, the silk drapes, making everything deaf, muffled, unreal.My knees are embedded in the implacable cold of the marble. The sensation, sharp and clear, is the only real thing. It anchors me to this moment, prevents me from tipping into the void where my mind wants to flee. Before me, Liam's form. I don't look at him. I can't. If I look, it will be true. So I stare at the join between two tiles, a fine line of gray mortar.The blood, however, doesn't ask permission. It advances, slow, inexorable, tracing a sinuous path in the white veins of the marble. A dark, shiny ribbon seeking its way into the void. Soon, its edge touches my skin. A viscous, intimate warmth spreads against my knee. The contact is an electrocution. Reality str

  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 69 : THE EXECUTION 2

    DianeThe blows rain down, methodical, professional. They aren't aimed at knocking him out right away, but at hurting. At humiliating. A knee to the stomach. A kick behind the knee that makes him collapse onto the marble floor. They pull him up only to strike him again. Liam's head sways back and forth under the impacts. The sound of fists on flesh, of bones cracking, is horribly intimate.— Please! Stop! I beg you! I scream, I cry, I writhe in Volkov's embrace. My cries echo in the immense suite, mingling with the dull grunts of the blows and Liam's raspy breathing.Liam doesn't scream. He takes it in silence, eyes half-closed, his gaze sometimes lost, sometimes finding mine in a flash of consciousness. And in that gaze, through the pain, I see something that finishes tearing me apart: not reproach. A strange pity. As if he could see that my suffering, at that moment, was worse than his own.— You see? murmurs Volkov, his mouth

  • Désiré Me 2   CHAPTER 68 : THE EXECUTION 1

    DianeVolkov's violence is methodical. It's not passionate, it's punitive. Each thrust is a punch, each withdrawal a tearing away. He twists my wrists, bites the skin of my shoulder until it bleeds, turning my body into a silent battlefield. I don't cry. I don't scream. I count the seconds in my head, I take refuge in the cold accounting of horror. I am the marble he's trying to crack.When he finishes his work, with a grunt that sounds more like a groan of anger than a cry of pleasure, he withdraws brutally and gets up from the bed without a glance at me. He puts on his silk robe like armor.— You thought he gave you a gift? he says, his back turned as he pours himself another cognac. He only gave you a reason to suffer more deeply.I remain lying on the rumpled, stained sheets, limbs heavy, flesh bruised. I feel the blood drying on my shoulder, the dull ache deep in my belly. But worse than anything, I feel the seed of hatred he has

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