Unholy Matrimony のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 151 - チャプター 160

EveThe silence in the house is heavy, pressing against my eardrums like deep water. I tighten the sash of my silk robe as I descend the grand staircase, the only sound the soft brush of fabric against the marble steps.Dominik didn't come to bed until four this morning. I felt him slide in beside me, radiating a harsh heat, smelling of antiseptic soap and the copper tang of the city. He held me for two hours, his muscles coiled tight even in sleep, before rising and vanishing again before dawn.He’s hunting. I know that. He’s out there tearing the city apart to find the source of the rot, while I’m stuck here, wandering the halls of the fortress.I reach the bottom of the stairs. Two guards are stationed by the front door. They snap to attention when they see me. Their eyes are tired. No one is sleeping well."Good morning, Mrs. Grimaldi," Francesco says. He looks like he’s aged five years in the last three days."Morning Francesco. Have you had coffee?" I ask. God, I miss real coff

DominikI’m staring at a ledger from 2018, tracing a line of credit that originated in Naples and vanished in the Cayman Islands. My eyes are burning. My head feels like it’s being squeezed in a hydraulic press.Somewhere in the house, a floorboard creaks.My hand goes instantly to the gun sitting on top of the spreadsheets."It’s me," Eve says from the doorway.I don't let go of the gun immediately. My reflexes are wired tight, a tripwire that’s been pulled taut for too many hours straight."You should be asleep," I say, my voice sounding like gravel grinding in a cement mixer."I can't sleep," she says. "The bed is too big. And the room is too quiet without your annoying snoring."She walks in. She’s wearing a silk slip that clings to her curves, the hem brushing her thighs. She’s barefoot. Her hair is loose, a dark cascade over her shoulders.She doesn't look tired. She looks restless.“I don’t snore.”She walks past the leather armchairs and comes around the desk. She stops right

DominikSleep deprivation is a slow-acting poison. It corrodes the edges of my vision and fills my joints with lead. Four days of relentless adrenaline have carved hollows under my eyes, leaving me operating on pure, mechanical instinct.Sunlight bleeds through the heavy drapes of the master suite, casting long shadows across the Persian rug. Sitting at the small writing desk in the corner, Eve is already awake. Her fingers fly across the keyboard of her laptop, her brow furrowed in concentration.Stepping behind her chair, my hands find the tension knotted in her shoulders. She leans back into my touch, exhaling a long, slow breath.Her natural scent is changing as her pregnancy progresses. She smells like dark amber and crushed orchids. It’s a heavy, intoxicating scent that bypasses my lungs and settles directly in my bloodstream."I can think of better things for you to be doing than staring at that screen," my thumbs press into the tight muscles at the base of her neck.“The log

DominikThe East River cuts a dark, icy swath alongside the perimeter of Sutton Place.Standing in the shadows of the tactical vans, the heavy Kevlar vest presses against my chest. Another weight added to the chaotic pressure building in my skull. The air is frigid, but the cold does nothing to dull the predatory hum vibrating through my veins.My men fan out around the property line, moving with lethal, synchronized precision. These are the apex predators of my organization. They don't ask questions, they just execute the geometry of violence.Enzo stands exactly two feet to my right.He hasn’t left my side since we walked out of the armory. Every step hes taken has been within my peripheral vision. His hands are locked on his weapon, his focus directed entirely outward at the wrought-iron gates of the townhouse.Raising a single, gloved fist, the signal is given.The breach is instantaneous and devastating. We don’t bother picking locks or disabling the keypad. A shaped explosive c

DominikConsciousness returns in jagged, agonizing fragments.There is no smooth transition from the dark. Just a violent collision with reality, heralded by the metallic taste of copper flooding my mouth and a crushing pressure in my chest.A sharp, ammonia-soaked rag is shoved viciously under my nose.My head jerks back involuntarily, snapping against solid steel. The movement sends a shockwave of nausea through my system. My eyelids feel like they’ve been sewn shut, crusted with dried blood and grit. Forcing them open requires a monumental effort, yielding only a blurred, swimming view of a harsh overhead lightbulb swaying on a frayed wire.The chemical agent they used at the door is still lingering in my bloodstream, leaving my extremities numb and my brain clouded in a thick, toxic fog.But the pain is vivid. It’s a localized map of trauma.Every breath grinds against what feels like at least two cracked ribs on my left side. My right eye is swollen completely shut. The metallic