His Private Hell - Chapter 121: Chapter 121

The room wasn’t spinning.
It was spiraling.
Eella stood under the burning water of the shower, eyes open, letting it scald her skin until her body forgot what Garrison’s hands felt like. But the marks remained—beneath her jaw, across her ribs, behind her thighs.
She pressed her palm flat against the tile, trembling.
She had been broken before. She had been claimed, caged, kissed until her lips bled. But this… this was different.
Garrison hadn’t just ruined her body.
He was unraveling her mind.
She scrubbed harder. Skin turned raw, but the memory wouldn’t wash away.
Darcie.
That name felt like a knife now. Because what Eella saw—what touched her, hummed to her, whispered to her—wasn’t Garrison’s ex-lover.
It was something… else.
And it wanted her.
A soft knock shattered the steam.
She didn’t answer.
The knock came again, firmer.
She yanked open the glass door, wrapped a towel around her shaking body, and opened the bathroom door.
Astrid stood there.
Not in heels. Not in silk.
But barefoot. Drenched. Her hair dripping down her shoulders, her eyes wild and unreadable.
“Come with me,” she said.
Eella narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
Astrid didn’t answer. She turned and walked, barefoot through the hall, leaving a wet trail like a serpent inviting her into Eden.
Eella followed.
The elevator had no buttons when they entered. Just a black screen that pulsed once, as if recognizing Astrid’s presence.
Eella stepped in beside her. “Where are we going?”
“Below.”
“How far?”
Astrid glanced at her. “To the Choir’s womb.”
Eella’s breath hitched.
The elevator moved—not down, not up, but in. Like the building was folding itself around them.
“I saw her,” Eella whispered.
“I know.”
“She kissed me.”
“She does that when she wants to mark something.”
Eella turned sharply. “Mark?”
Astrid smiled. “Darcie’s not what you think.”
The doors slid open.
The hallway wasn’t concrete or wood or marble.
It was flesh.
It pulsed beneath their feet like a living organism. The walls throbbed. The light was bioluminescent. Red, pink, gold. It smelled like sugar and rot.
“What is this place?” Eella choked.
Astrid didn’t stop walking.
“This is where Lazarus grew the Choir.”
Eella stopped. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Astrid turned, slowly.
“Did you think Lazarus found the singers?”
“I—”
“They weren’t born. They were made. Carved from agony. Fed on lust. They don’t sing to entertain. They sing to summon.”
“To summon what?”
Astrid’s eyes gleamed.
“Gods.”
Eella couldn’t breathe.
Astrid walked again, slower now. “Lazarus’s goal was never power. It was transcendence. A world where suffering births divinity. The Choir was the first offering.”
“And Darcie?” Eella whispered.
Astrid stopped at a door made of stitched skin.
“She was the prototype. She died. And when she woke up…”
“She wasn’t human anymore,” Eella finished.
Astrid turned. “Neither are you.”
The door opened.
Inside was silence.
And then—
A hum.
Low. Feminine. Hungry.
Darcie stood in the center, her hair unbound, skin glowing. Her eyes locked onto Eella’s like a predator finding its match.
“I told you,” Darcie whispered. “You’re hollow in all the right places.”
Eella tried to step back.
Darcie moved first.
Faster than thought. Closer than breath.
Her lips brushed Eella’s ear. “I could crawl inside you.”
Eella shoved her. “Don’t touch me.”
Darcie smiled. “But I already have. I left something behind.”
Eella turned to Astrid. “Why did you bring me here?”
Astrid looked pained. “Because she chose you.”
“I didn’t ask to be chosen.”
“No one ever does.”
Darcie stepped back, and her body began to change. Her fingers lengthened. Her mouth split wider. Not monstrous—but otherworldly. Divine and terrifying.
“She’s going to rupture soon,” Astrid said softly. “Lazarus thinks you’ll be ready to replace her.”
Eella recoiled. “Replace—”
“He can’t control her anymore. He wants a new god. One he can still chain.”
Darcie laughed.
“A little late for that.”
The floor quaked. The walls pulsed harder. The air thickened with pheromones and salt and heat.
Darcie walked to Eella again, leaned close, and whispered—
“He’s going to break you open.”
And then she sang.
One note.
Just one.
And Eella dropped to her knees screaming.
Her ears bled. Her mind bent inward. Images slammed through her—Garrison’s face. Her mother’s funeral. The night she first kissed death and asked it to stay.
Darcie stopped.
Eella collapsed.
Astrid caught her before she hit the ground.
“She’s not ready,” Astrid said.
Darcie licked her lips. “She will be.”
⸻
Upstairs, Garrison watched the monitor go black.
He had seen enough.
Eella writhing under Darcie’s song.
Astrid’s betrayal.
Lazarus’s games.
He slammed his fist through the screen.
“She’s not his,” he growled.
A voice behind him—silk and venom—answered.
“She isn’t yours either.”
Garrison turned.
Sasha.
Still alive. Still beautiful. Still watching him like a meal.
“I thought you left,” he muttered.
“I did,” she said. “But I came back for the last act.”
He stood, jaw clenched. “Then watch from the shadows. She’s not your business.”
“She’s everyone’s business now,” Sasha whispered. “You made sure of that.”
Garrison pushed past her.
“I’m going to get her out,” he said.
“She won’t leave you,” Sasha called after him. “She can’t. That’s the joke, Garrison. You didn’t trap her.”
“What do you mean?”
“She trapped herself.”
⸻
Eella woke in a different room.
This one was quiet. Silver. Empty.
Astrid was gone.
Darcie too.
But someone sat beside the bed.
Garrison.
His eyes were red.
“You saw her,” he said.
Eella nodded.
“I told you she was gone.”
Eella shook her head. “No. She’s just not human.”
“That’s worse.”
He stood.
“I’m ending it.”
Eella sat up. “How?”
“I’m going to destroy Lazarus.”
“Then what?”
“Then I burn this place.”
She swallowed. “And me?”
He didn’t answer.
She stood, crossed the space between them.
“You can’t kill him.”
“I have to.”
She grabbed his face. “You don’t win wars like this. You win by becoming worse than the enemy.”
He looked into her eyes.
“You already are.”
She kissed him.
Slow. Desperate. The kind of kiss that tasted like goodbye.
But it wasn’t.
It never was.
He grabbed her back, kissed her like he wanted to make her forget Darcie’s touch, forget the note that cracked her bones.
“I’ll die for you,” he growled.
“No,” she whispered.
“You’d let me live like this?”
“I want you to burn for me.”
He groaned, lifting her, slamming her against the nearest wall. Their bodies collided, chaos in motion. His mouth claimed her neck. Her fingers ripped his shirt. They were tearing themselves apart just to fit into each other.
And when he pushed into her—hard, raw, without pause—she screamed.
Not in pain.
In ownership.
“You think you own me?” he hissed.
“No,” she gasped. “I think I own you.”
He came like a weapon breaking, shuddering, shaking, collapsing inside her. And when she did—loud and feral—it was with his name carved into her ribs.
Afterward, they lay on the floor.
Bloody.
Silent.
Together.
But not whole.
Never whole.
⸻
Downstairs, Lazarus watched the footage with a smile.
“Let them love,” he said to the Choir.
“Why?” asked the newest one, teeth sharp, eyes wild.
“Because love always ends in sacrifice,” Lazarus whispered.
“And I want her to choose.”