His Private Hell - Chapter 119: Chapter 119

The rain came down in black sheets, slicing the night in half. Neon signs flickered outside the penthouse window, but inside, Eella’s world was darker than any storm. She stood at the ledge, robe clinging to her skin, hair plastered with sweat and ash. Her reflection in the glass stared back at her: hollow eyes rimmed in blood, lips cracked, cheeks bruised. She looked like a corpse choosing to live.
Behind her, Garrison rose from the bed—shirtless, every inch of him trembling with need and frenzy. He crossed the room with silent purpose, hands reaching for her waist. “Why didn’t you wake me?” he growled.
Eella didn’t answer. She pressed her fingertips to the cool glass, listening to the city hum like a beast on the brink of war.
“You’re here because you need me,” Garrison said, breath hot against her ear. “Because no matter how far you run, you always come back.”
She stilled. “Not always.”
He caught her chin, tilting her head so that she met his gaze. “You came back tonight.”
Her pulse throbbed with a cocktail of dread and desire. The first drop of rain leaked between her toes as he pressed closer, hips grazing hers. “I came back because I have nowhere else to go.”
Garrison’s laugh was hollow. “Then stay.”
He kissed her slowly—fingertips trailing across bruises already fading. Eella closed her eyes, letting him consume her, knowing that this kiss would taste like poison on her tongue. When his mouth moved down her neck, leaving marks like constellations mapping her pain, she knew she would let him. Again. Every time.
But tonight, something had changed. The storm outside was mirrored in her veins. The Choir’s echo still whispered at the edge of her mind—their voices woven into her flesh. For months, she had fought it. Tonight, she felt its pull.
Garrison lifted her—gentle as a demon—onto the windowsill. The city lights danced across her skin. He tore at her robe until it fell in tatters. She didn’t bother to move. When he kissed the hollow at her breastbone, she arched into him, craving the collision of torment and ecstasy.
His hands roamed: her ribs, her hips, the curve of her waist. He broke a seam of lace. Fingers slipped inside her. Eella gasped, legs tightening around him, toe curling against the frame. He groaned, the sound rising and falling like a tide of sin.
But halfway through, she jerked away. “Stop.”
Garrison froze, breath shuddering. “What—”
She climbed down, robe forgotten, and crossed to the desk. A file lay open: EDEN PROTOCOL branded in red.
He advanced, concern flickering across his features. “Eden Protocol?”
Eella traced the words with her fingertip. “You didn’t tell me you were part of this.”
Garrison’s jaw clenched. “It was supposed to be dead.”
She flipped the file: plans, blueprints, genetic charts—all pointing to a new Choir variation: Project Eden. A program designed to merge Choir code with human DNA. The final step to creating a perfect vessel. A crown, hollowed of everything but obedience.
“You planned to upload the Choir into me,” Eella whispered, fury cracking her voice. “To make me your perfect hell.”
Garrison’s eyes burned. “I wanted to save you.”
She laughed, a sharp, tearing sound. “By killing me.”
He reached out, but she slapped him. The sound echoed. “You lied.”
“I did it for us.”
“For us?” Eella repeated, voice breaking. “When did it become about us?”
Blood pounded in her ears. The servers downstairs hummed—the Eden core waiting. She closed the file and slammed it shut. “I’m done being saved.”
The challenge in her eyes drew him closer. He grabbed her shoulders. “Then fight with me.”
She wrenched free. “I’ll fight you.”
He paused, hurt flickering beneath rage. Then: “If you walk away now, I’ll make you beg to return.”
She squared her shoulders. “Not tonight.”
He lunged—closing the gap, capturing her mouth. It was violent, hungry, desperate. A storm in human form. Eella let herself be swallowed, taste his anguish, his guilt, his darkness. She slammed her fist into his chest—right over the Eden Protocol logo tattooed beneath his shirt. The ink blurred into his skin, a brand of his own design.
Garrison stumbled back, pain—and pride—etching his features. “Damn you,” he breathed.
Eella backed away again, eyes flashing. “Damn me.”
The storm outside peaked—thunder ripping through the sky. She moved toward the door, robe slipping off one shoulder. “I’m going to end this.”
Garrison reached for her. “Don’t.”
She looked back—something raw and broken in her gaze. “I have to.”
And she stepped out into the rain, leaving him behind.
Eella’s knees trembled as she stumbled into the kitchen, chest heaving, body still drunk on Garrison’s presence. She could still feel his fingerprints—etched across her skin like bruised poetry. Her eyes burned, not from tears, but from the fragments of truth she couldn’t yet look directly in the face.
What had he become?
What had she become?
The cold marble counter pressed against her palms as she steadied herself. The tap ran. Steam rose. She was trying to focus on something tangible—real—but even the water stung her skin, as if her nerves had been skinned raw. Her reflection in the window above the sink was nearly unrecognizable. Wild hair. Eyes haunted. Lips red from being kissed and bitten too hard.
A phantom knock echoed at her front door.
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t move.
Instead, she closed her eyes. And the past stormed back with vicious clarity.
The 33rd floor.
Darcie’s voice, guttural and breaking. That sound—that moment—when the elevator doors opened and all Eella saw was crimson.
She had buried it.
Forced it down.
But now… now she was remembering everything.
The stench of blood.
The sound of chains dragging against steel.
Lazarus had been there. Watching. Recording.
And Darcie had whispered one thing before she passed out, her mouth barely forming the words:
“He’s not the worst one, Eella… He answers to her.”
Her?
Eella’s blood ran cold.
A high-pitched ringing sliced through her ears. She clutched her head, stumbling back from the sink, knocking over a chair. She was unraveling. Bit by bit. Memory by memory.
Garrison had protected her.
But from what?
Or who?
Suddenly her phone buzzed.
Blocked number.
Her breath caught.
She didn’t answer.
But the voicemail left behind carved new wounds into her sanity.
“You left her to rot. You watched her bleed. Now it’s your turn, little dove. Room 339. Come alone. Or she dies again.”
Click.
She sank to the floor, fingers clutching her ribs, nails digging in. This wasn’t over. It had never been over.
And somewhere in the walls of her mind, something clicked open. Something ancient. Something she had locked away the night she escaped the compound all those years ago.
Not just memory. Not just fear.
Instinct.
And it screamed one word:
Run.