His Private Hell - Chapter 118: Chapter 118
You are reading His Private Hell, Chapter 118: Chapter 118. Read more chapters of His Private Hell.
The first time Eella screamed, it wasn’t from pain.
It was from remembering.
The sound clawed from her throat in the shower—water scalding her spine, steam thickening the air as she pressed her palms against the tiled wall. Her forehead rested there too, trembling. Her body still remembered how it felt to be split between Garrison’s cruelty and devotion, the way his voice cracked with need and something ancient when he whispered her name into her ear like a confession.
“Mine.”
The water couldn’t wash it off. Her skin felt branded—between her thighs, across her chest, up her neck where his teeth had drawn blood hours ago and smeared it like war paint. She’d gone back to her apartment to run, to hide, to try to gain back some semblance of control, but she was unraveling, thread by thread, and Garrison was the blade.
And still, she burned for him.
When she stepped out of the shower, the city outside her window looked different. As if it had been twisted overnight. News headlines scrolled with ominous mentions: unexplained power outages in Lazarus-owned buildings. Police investigations stifled. People vanishing. Eella stood there wrapped in a towel, water dripping from her collarbone to her thighs, while the television whispered chaos into the room.
“Choir Protocol—initiated.”
A phrase repeated again and again, like static.
She didn’t know what it meant. But she knew it had Garrison’s fingerprints all over it.
There was something in his eyes lately—since Darcie’s meltdown on the 33rd floor, since the night he strangled silence into Eella’s mouth with the promise of something far worse than violence. It was as if he’d unlatched something in himself. Let the monster not just out, but home.
And it wanted to worship her. On its knees.
The knock came at 4:47 a.m.
She didn’t answer it. Not right away. She stood in the silence with her towel clinging to her hips and goosebumps skating her flesh. When the knock came again—harder this time—she walked to the door, pulse throbbing like a scream in her ears.
When she opened it, Garrison stood there soaked in rain. No umbrella. No coat. Just his black shirt plastered to his chest and that wild look in his eyes—the look of a man who hadn’t slept in days and didn’t care to. He looked at her like she was both his ruin and his resurrection.
“You need to come with me,” he said.
She blinked. “It’s not even five—”
“I said come.” His voice was low. Raw. The edge of command that turned her bones to smoke. But beneath it was something else. Urgency. A flicker of something like fear.
“Garrison, I can’t just—”
“You can. You will.”
She didn’t argue further. She slipped on her coat and let him lead her down the hall, his hand wrapped tight around her wrist—not gentle, not brutal, just possessive. The elevator had a flickering light above it. The halls smelled wrong. As if the building itself had begun to decay under some invisible rot.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
His silence was thunderous.
By the time they reached the parking garage, Eella saw the men. Three of them. Standing by the matte black SUV with Lazarus security badges—and expressions like they were ready to kill or die for him. One of them had dried blood on his collar.
“Get in,” Garrison said.
She hesitated for just a second.
He turned his head, slow and deliberate. His voice dropped into something dangerous. “You want to see what happens if you don’t?”
She got in.
The city outside the tinted windows looked like a foreign land. Sirens in the distance. A Lazarus building on 8th Ave flickering like a dying heart. People were walking faster. Eyes everywhere. Surveillance drones buzzed past with red sensors glowing like predators.
Something was happening. Something big.
And Garrison was at the center of it.
“Is this about Darcie?” she asked as they turned down a silent road.
Garrison’s jaw tightened.
“She didn’t jump,” Eella whispered.
“I know.”
He didn’t elaborate. But she could see the storm swirling inside him.
“She said something before she fell. About the Choir. About a song.”
Garrison’s hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around her throat—not squeezing, but holding. Like he was anchoring himself. Or her.
“She was hearing things,” he said quietly. “They all are.”
Eella’s skin prickled. “They?”
But before he could answer, the car came to a stop.
The Lazarus facility wasn’t like the others. This one was underground. Hidden behind a crumbling warehouse façade. The air reeked of iron and smoke. As they stepped out, one of the guards turned to Garrison.
“Third containment failed. We’ve lost communication with Sector Seven.”
Garrison didn’t blink. “Seal the entire lower level. No one leaves until I say.”
The man nodded and vanished down the tunnel.
Eella’s heart was galloping now.
Inside, the halls buzzed with unease. Dim red lighting. Alarm panels flickering. Everything smelled sterile, scorched. As they passed one glass door, Eella saw someone thrashing—strapped to a gurney, head jerking, veins bulging blue.
“What is this place?” she whispered.
Garrison stopped in front of a door marked CHOIR—2.0.
He typed in a code. Retinal scan. Fingerprint.
The door opened with a hiss.
Inside was hell.
She couldn’t describe it any other way. The walls pulsed like lungs. Screens showed vitals that made no sense. Blood on the floor. On the walls. On a glass tank filled with some kind of black fluid, where something moved—shifting shapes like it was dreaming madness.
“They’re trying to replicate consciousness,” Garrison said. “Using sensory dissonance. It’s not science anymore. It’s music. Pain. Frequencies that don’t just break minds—they rewrite them.”
Eella stared. “And Darcie?”
“She heard the song. She wasn’t the first.”
She turned to him. “Have you?”
He didn’t speak.
Instead, he stepped toward her. His hand cupped her jaw. His thumb slid along her lower lip, slowly, like a warning and a promise.
“I hear you.” His voice cracked. “And that’s worse.”
He kissed her.
It was a kiss that burned every exit strategy out of her brain. She clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, because that kiss tasted like desperation, like death, like the end of all his control—and hers. He slammed her against the wall of the lab, his thigh forcing hers apart, his mouth devouring her sighs like fuel.
Clothes came off in brutal silence.
She wrapped her legs around his waist. He lifted her, pushed into her in one relentless thrust that made her gasp, clawing at his shoulders. It wasn’t gentle. It was blasphemy. His fingers dug into her hips as he drove into her like he was trying to bury something inside her—his guilt, his darkness, his obsession.
Every thrust came with a word.
“Mine.”
“Mine.”
“Mine.”
She bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.
But he wanted the scream.
“Let them hear you,” he rasped. “Let them all hear who you belong to.”
She came hard, nails raking his back, breathless and broken and hungry for more.
Afterward, he didn’t soften.
He kissed her forehead like a man preparing for war.
“Lazarus is falling,” he whispered. “And I need to know if you’ll burn it with me.”
Her eyes met his.
“No,” she said. “I’ll burn you.”
He smiled.
Not surprised. Not afraid.
Just proud.
And then the alarms went off again.
It was from remembering.
The sound clawed from her throat in the shower—water scalding her spine, steam thickening the air as she pressed her palms against the tiled wall. Her forehead rested there too, trembling. Her body still remembered how it felt to be split between Garrison’s cruelty and devotion, the way his voice cracked with need and something ancient when he whispered her name into her ear like a confession.
“Mine.”
The water couldn’t wash it off. Her skin felt branded—between her thighs, across her chest, up her neck where his teeth had drawn blood hours ago and smeared it like war paint. She’d gone back to her apartment to run, to hide, to try to gain back some semblance of control, but she was unraveling, thread by thread, and Garrison was the blade.
And still, she burned for him.
When she stepped out of the shower, the city outside her window looked different. As if it had been twisted overnight. News headlines scrolled with ominous mentions: unexplained power outages in Lazarus-owned buildings. Police investigations stifled. People vanishing. Eella stood there wrapped in a towel, water dripping from her collarbone to her thighs, while the television whispered chaos into the room.
“Choir Protocol—initiated.”
A phrase repeated again and again, like static.
She didn’t know what it meant. But she knew it had Garrison’s fingerprints all over it.
There was something in his eyes lately—since Darcie’s meltdown on the 33rd floor, since the night he strangled silence into Eella’s mouth with the promise of something far worse than violence. It was as if he’d unlatched something in himself. Let the monster not just out, but home.
And it wanted to worship her. On its knees.
The knock came at 4:47 a.m.
She didn’t answer it. Not right away. She stood in the silence with her towel clinging to her hips and goosebumps skating her flesh. When the knock came again—harder this time—she walked to the door, pulse throbbing like a scream in her ears.
When she opened it, Garrison stood there soaked in rain. No umbrella. No coat. Just his black shirt plastered to his chest and that wild look in his eyes—the look of a man who hadn’t slept in days and didn’t care to. He looked at her like she was both his ruin and his resurrection.
“You need to come with me,” he said.
She blinked. “It’s not even five—”
“I said come.” His voice was low. Raw. The edge of command that turned her bones to smoke. But beneath it was something else. Urgency. A flicker of something like fear.
“Garrison, I can’t just—”
“You can. You will.”
She didn’t argue further. She slipped on her coat and let him lead her down the hall, his hand wrapped tight around her wrist—not gentle, not brutal, just possessive. The elevator had a flickering light above it. The halls smelled wrong. As if the building itself had begun to decay under some invisible rot.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
His silence was thunderous.
By the time they reached the parking garage, Eella saw the men. Three of them. Standing by the matte black SUV with Lazarus security badges—and expressions like they were ready to kill or die for him. One of them had dried blood on his collar.
“Get in,” Garrison said.
She hesitated for just a second.
He turned his head, slow and deliberate. His voice dropped into something dangerous. “You want to see what happens if you don’t?”
She got in.
The city outside the tinted windows looked like a foreign land. Sirens in the distance. A Lazarus building on 8th Ave flickering like a dying heart. People were walking faster. Eyes everywhere. Surveillance drones buzzed past with red sensors glowing like predators.
Something was happening. Something big.
And Garrison was at the center of it.
“Is this about Darcie?” she asked as they turned down a silent road.
Garrison’s jaw tightened.
“She didn’t jump,” Eella whispered.
“I know.”
He didn’t elaborate. But she could see the storm swirling inside him.
“She said something before she fell. About the Choir. About a song.”
Garrison’s hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around her throat—not squeezing, but holding. Like he was anchoring himself. Or her.
“She was hearing things,” he said quietly. “They all are.”
Eella’s skin prickled. “They?”
But before he could answer, the car came to a stop.
The Lazarus facility wasn’t like the others. This one was underground. Hidden behind a crumbling warehouse façade. The air reeked of iron and smoke. As they stepped out, one of the guards turned to Garrison.
“Third containment failed. We’ve lost communication with Sector Seven.”
Garrison didn’t blink. “Seal the entire lower level. No one leaves until I say.”
The man nodded and vanished down the tunnel.
Eella’s heart was galloping now.
Inside, the halls buzzed with unease. Dim red lighting. Alarm panels flickering. Everything smelled sterile, scorched. As they passed one glass door, Eella saw someone thrashing—strapped to a gurney, head jerking, veins bulging blue.
“What is this place?” she whispered.
Garrison stopped in front of a door marked CHOIR—2.0.
He typed in a code. Retinal scan. Fingerprint.
The door opened with a hiss.
Inside was hell.
She couldn’t describe it any other way. The walls pulsed like lungs. Screens showed vitals that made no sense. Blood on the floor. On the walls. On a glass tank filled with some kind of black fluid, where something moved—shifting shapes like it was dreaming madness.
“They’re trying to replicate consciousness,” Garrison said. “Using sensory dissonance. It’s not science anymore. It’s music. Pain. Frequencies that don’t just break minds—they rewrite them.”
Eella stared. “And Darcie?”
“She heard the song. She wasn’t the first.”
She turned to him. “Have you?”
He didn’t speak.
Instead, he stepped toward her. His hand cupped her jaw. His thumb slid along her lower lip, slowly, like a warning and a promise.
“I hear you.” His voice cracked. “And that’s worse.”
He kissed her.
It was a kiss that burned every exit strategy out of her brain. She clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, because that kiss tasted like desperation, like death, like the end of all his control—and hers. He slammed her against the wall of the lab, his thigh forcing hers apart, his mouth devouring her sighs like fuel.
Clothes came off in brutal silence.
She wrapped her legs around his waist. He lifted her, pushed into her in one relentless thrust that made her gasp, clawing at his shoulders. It wasn’t gentle. It was blasphemy. His fingers dug into her hips as he drove into her like he was trying to bury something inside her—his guilt, his darkness, his obsession.
Every thrust came with a word.
“Mine.”
“Mine.”
“Mine.”
She bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.
But he wanted the scream.
“Let them hear you,” he rasped. “Let them all hear who you belong to.”
She came hard, nails raking his back, breathless and broken and hungry for more.
Afterward, he didn’t soften.
He kissed her forehead like a man preparing for war.
“Lazarus is falling,” he whispered. “And I need to know if you’ll burn it with me.”
Her eyes met his.
“No,” she said. “I’ll burn you.”
He smiled.
Not surprised. Not afraid.
Just proud.
And then the alarms went off again.
End of His Private Hell Chapter 118. Continue reading Chapter 119 or return to His Private Hell book page.