บททั้งหมดของ HIS POISONOUS POSSESSION: บทที่ 91 - บทที่ 100

[The Sickness]The Alpine air outside was a scream, but inside the SUV, as they roared away from the chapel, the silence was a suffocating shroud. Dante’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his jaw set so tight it looked ready to shatter. The tablet lay between them, the flickering image of the child—their child—burned into the back of Ivy’s retinas.But as the road began to twist through the lower passes, the vehicle swerved.Dante let out a sound—a low, visceral grunt of pain that Ivy hadn’t heard since the first night in the Palisades. His skin, usually the color of olive and gold, had turned a sickly, translucent grey. Sweat poured from his brow, matting his dark hair to his temples."Dante?" Ivy reached out, her fingers brushing his neck. He was burning. Not with the heat of his usual obsession, but with a clinical, violent fever."Don't..." he gasped, his chest heaving. He slammed the brakes, the car skidding to a halt on the edge of a precipice. "The scratches...

[The Throne of Thorns]The digital recorder sat on the nightstand, its small red light blinking like a steady, mocking heartbeat. The voice of Ivy’s mother—a woman long since consigned to the graveyard of her memory—still echoed in the rafters of the hunting lodge. Do you want a husband, or a throne?Dante let out a low, agonizing groan from the center of the massive bed. The "Sickness" was no longer a quiet fever; it was a violent, physical reclamation. His skin was slick with a cold, translucent sweat, and his muscles jumped under the surface like trapped animals. Every time Ivy moved closer, his tremors intensified. The revelation was a jagged blade in her mind: her very presence was the toxin. Their "resonance," the very thing the Architects had spent twenty years cultivating, had become a terminal allergy.Ivy looked at the white lily on the floor. The scent was cloying, the smell of a funeral parlor. She looked at Dante—the man who had torn her life apart, only to weave himself

[The Red Strings]The morning light did not bring clarity; it brought a cold, clinical sharpness to the wreckage of the room. Dante was still submerged in the heavy, oscillating waves of the sickness, his body a battlefield where the Moretti blood fought the St. Claire influence. He was no longer the imposing titan who had dragged Ivy into the dark; he was a man being dismantled and rebuilt in her image.Ivy stood over him, her fingers tracing the edge of the child’s drawing. Mama is the key. Papa is the lock. The words were a brand on her mind. She looked down at Dante, whose eyes flickered beneath his lids, lost in the "Stockholm Symphony" of his own making."Wake up, Dante," she whispered, her voice a low command. She didn't use a gentle touch. She pressed her palm flat against his bare, fevered chest, right over the erratic thud of his heart. "The world is moving without us. You don't have the luxury of dying."Dante’s eyes snapped open, gold clashing with the red of burst capilla

[The Street of Alchemists]The sound of the mirror shattering was not an explosion; it was a rhythmic collapse, a thousand silver teeth falling onto the hardwood floor. In the sudden, jagged silence of the safe house, the air felt ionized, thick with the scent of copper and the metallic tang of Dante’s spilled mercury-blood.Dante didn't flinch. He didn't even turn toward the wreckage. His eyes remained fixed on the figure in the square below—the man with the white hair and the child holding the red balloon. His hand, still bleeding that strange, shimmering fluid, tightened on the windowsill until the wood groaned."They aren't coming for us, Ivy," Dante whispered, his voice a low, terrifying vibration of focused malice. "They’re waiting for us to realize that we’ve already walked into the crucible. Look at the glass. It didn't break from a bullet. it broke because the air in this room can no longer contain what we are."Ivy stood behind him, her heart hammering against her ribs like

[The Lullaby of Bone]The recreation of the St. Claire bedroom was a psychological trap designed to soften the edges of Ivy’s resolve, but for Dante, it was an affront to his sovereignty. Seeing Ivy’s childhood innocence mirrored in this cold, sterile laboratory triggered the darkest, most territorial instincts of his soul.As the mercury pooled on the floor, spelling out that singular, possessive word—MINE—Dante’s reaction was not one of fatherly instinct. It was a predator’s roar. He didn't see a child; he saw a rival for Ivy’s devotion."She’s not yours," Dante hissed, his voice vibrating with a sadistic edge that made the very air in the room feel sharp. He stepped in front of Ivy, his hand reaching back to grip her waist