All Chapters of Désiré Me 2: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

 DianeThe cold marble of the bathroom floor penetrates my knees, but the sensation is distant, numb. Everything is numb, except that burning, sharp thing beating behind my sternum. Hatred. It tastes of metal and ashes. It wears the face of Dimitri Volkov.My fingers clench on the edge of the sink. I tried to run away. A desperate, childish attempt, born from the panic of this day. I had a plan, a contact, a road to freedom. Or to Liam. It was the same thing, in my head. Liam was freedom. Gentleness, normalcy, a love that didn't leave blue marks on the skin.Volkov knew before I even moved. He had anticipated every step. The "accomplice" chauffeur was in his pay. The car that was supposed to take me to the airport stopped in front of the gates of the Moscow property, and the man simply turned his head, a sorry smile on his lips.— Mr. Volkov is waiting for you, madam.He was waiting. Like a cat in front of a mouse hole.I

DianeMorning comes not as a dawn, but as a sentence.The light filtering between the slats of the shutters is gray, implacable. It warms nothing. It exposes. It outlines the contours of the room, the clothes in tatters on the parquet floor, the thick silence between the two bodies that no longer touch.I have been awake for a long time, lying on my side, eyes open. I feel the emptiness behind me, where Liam finally lay down in the early hours, at a calculated distance. I also feel the echoes in my flesh. A deep soreness, familiar and foreign. A physical memory inscribed in my muscles, between my thighs, on the sensitive skin of my neck. It's no longer pain. It's a map. An instruction manual etched onto my very nerves.Without a sound, I get up. The parquet floorboards are icy under my bare feet. I circle the bed, avoiding looking at the motionless silhouette buried under the sheets. I pass the mirror and don't glance at it. I don't need to see the marks.

 DianeThe suite is too silent. A cathedral silence, heavy, where every sound from the city below seems muffled by the thick silk curtains and deep carpets. I remain standing before the picture window, my palms still pressed against the cold glass, until the heat of my skin leaves two fleeting halos of mist.Time stretches, elastic. I could stay like this for an eternity, a statue of satin and diamonds in its jewel box. But I know this is only a respite. Waiting is part of the ritual.The sound of the key in the lock is discreet, but it tears through the silence like a gunshot. I don't start. I don't turn around immediately. I wait for the door to open, for the space to fill with his presence.Volkov enters without haste. He has taken off his jacket, his tie is loosened. He holds a cognac glass, which he sets down with a small click on the gilded console. His gaze travels over me, from the impeccable chignon to the train of the dress spread o

 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

 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