His Private Hell - Chapter 107: Chapter 107

Eella didn’t scream when she hit the floor.
She gasped. A ragged, animal noise. Like her lungs were collapsing under the weight of something she couldn’t name.
Garrison’s hand had missed her face by an inch. Not a slap. A wall-shattering punch into the drywall above her head, fragments of plaster dusting her hair like snowfall. His body towered, chest heaving, eyes a shade of abyss no light could penetrate. A man undone by something too primal to be called rage.
“You think this is a game,” he hissed. “You think you can walk into my life, into my secrets, and come out clean?”
Eella, still sprawled on the hardwood, stared up at him like she didn’t recognize him anymore. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe Garrison Wolfe had only ever been a shadow stitched into a suit. Maybe this—this shattered version—was the real man.
“I never wanted to come out clean,” she whispered.
His nostrils flared. The mask slipped again, mouth twisting into something raw, vulnerable, almost broken.
“You opened the door,” he said.
“I did.”
“You let him in.”
“Maybe.”
Silence stretched. A silence that vibrated, thick with something darker than fury. The sound of Lazarus’s voice still echoed in her head.
You always belonged to the fire.
And maybe he was right. Maybe she’d never been the girl who walked away from darkness. Maybe she’d been forged in it.
Garrison dropped to his knees in front of her, knuckles still bleeding from the wall.
“Tell me you didn’t feel it,” he said.
Eella licked her lips. “Feel what?”
“My mind breaking. The second I saw him. The second I realized you’d already met him.”
She exhaled slowly, a soft tremor through her lungs.
“I think you want it to break.”
He grabbed her wrist—hard. Not cruel, not soft. Just enough to anchor her.
“You don’t get it,” he rasped. “I’m trying to protect you.”
She leaned closer, face inches from his. “And what if I don’t want protection? What if I want to fall?”
His mouth crashed into hers before she finished the question. This wasn’t hunger. This was collapse. Teeth, tongue, the scrape of stubble and the bite of restraint finally snapping. He dragged her up, up, until her back hit the hallway wall, and then there were hands—rough, frantic—pulling her blouse down, sliding beneath lace, pinning her open like a prayer he didn’t believe in.
Her legs wrapped around his waist. Instinct. Madness. Need.
“You don’t get to want him,” he said against her throat. “You don’t get to want any part of him.”
“Who says I do?” she gasped.
He bit down, hard enough to bruise. Her moan echoed down the corridor.
“You want me twisted? You want my hell?” Garrison growled, ripping the last of her shirt open. “Fine. I’ll show you what it’s like to burn from the inside.”
He carried her into the kitchen, clearing the island with one arm, sending glass shattering to the floor as he bent her across the cold marble. Her cheek pressed against the surface as his palm wrapped around her nape, holding her still, trembling.
“You think you know pain?” he said. “You think I haven’t bled for this?”
“I think you’re still bleeding.”
“Good.”
He shoved into her in one hard thrust, no warning, no mercy, and she choked on her scream, arching against the restraint, against the rough edge of every inch he gave her.
“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Every fucking inch of you. Every breath. Every scream.”
She shattered. A pulse of unbearable pleasure tore through her, body convulsing beneath his. He didn’t slow. Didn’t stop. Her climax only drove him deeper, like he needed to feel her break against him, again and again.
His hand slipped under her chin, dragging her mouth back to his. She tasted herself on his tongue, the iron tang of control finally disintegrated. He was shaking. Sweating. Wild.
“You taste like fire,” he breathed.
She bit his lip. Drew blood. “So burn.”
They didn’t stop until her knees gave out and he dragged her to the floor, still inside her, still chasing whatever ruin they’d started. Her back hit the tile. His hands tangled in her hair, holding her like she’d vanish if he let go.
And maybe she would.
Because part of her already had.
⸻
She woke later with blood on her thigh and Garrison asleep at her side, naked, his arm over her waist like a brand. His mouth was parted, the edge of a bruise on his jaw, and she realized she must’ve hit him at some point. Fought him. Wanted it more than her sanity should allow.
But sanity had left the building hours ago.
She slipped from his hold quietly, legs unsteady, body aching in the best way. The apartment smelled like sex, dust, and storm. She walked barefoot into the living room, eyes catching the faint glow of her phone where it had been left facedown.
One new voicemail.
She tapped play.
“Eella. They’re watching you. From the inside out. You think it’s about Garrison? You think it’s about me? It’s not. It’s always been you. The Choir isn’t the end. It’s the key. Open the next door.”
Click.
No name. But she knew that voice. It wasn’t Lazarus.
It was Darcie.
The hair on her neck rose. Her stomach twisted.
She turned—and found Garrison behind her. Awake. Eyes blazing.
“How much did you hear?” she asked.
He held up her phone. “Enough.”
“She’s alive.”
“She’s not,” he said quietly.
“But—”
“She’s not.”
Eella stepped back. “Garrison—”
“I buried her, Eella. With my own fucking hands.”
The room tilted. Her heart galloped in her chest.
“So what the hell was that?”
He didn’t answer.
Because he didn’t know.
⸻
By morning, Garrison was gone.
No note. No call.
Eella sat on the floor of the shower, letting hot water scald her skin. She replayed the voicemail over and over. Darcie’s voice. No mistaking it.
The 33rd floor.
The Choir.
The secrets Garrison refused to say out loud.
She had no plan, no keycard, no authority—but she had one thing: a name.
Solomon.
Garrison had muttered it once in his sleep, the name carved into his subconscious like a scar. She dug through his discarded suit from last night, found his secondary phone.
It was locked.
She tried every passcode she could think of.
Nothing.
Until she typed her own birthday—and it opened.
Her breath caught.
One message sat unsent.
“If she finds out the truth, don’t let her leave. Not again.”
Sent to Solomon.
She scrolled down—found a list of locations. Redacted. Coordinates. A timestamp for tonight. Midnight.
The name of the building?
Ally’s Inc.
Sub-basement.
A level she hadn’t known existed.
She stared at the mirror across the room, the steam-blurred reflection of herself barely visible.
She didn’t recognize the woman looking back.
But that was okay.
She wasn’t trying to survive anymore.
She was ready to burn.