His Private Hell - Chapter 126: Chapter 126

The silence after the storm didn’t feel like peace—it felt like aftermath. Like something had been severed in the dark, and no one had noticed until the bleeding began.
Eella stood barefoot in the shattered remains of the once-luxurious master suite, blood drying on her fingers, lips trembling from the sound of her own heartbeat. The city outside the towering glass walls blinked with indifferent lights, but inside her mind, there was only shadow. No Choir now. No Lazarus. No Garrison.
Just her.
And she wasn’t whole.
She moved with instinct alone, dragging herself through the marble and glass, the metallic scent of ash and charred wires lacing the air. The remnants of their war—hers and Garrison’s—were scorched into the walls. A broken chandelier still swung like a decapitated body above her, moaning with the wind leaking through a broken pane.
She didn’t call out. She didn’t cry.
She stripped her ruined dress from her skin like it was a lie she’d worn for too long and stepped naked into the storm of her own making.
Because it wasn’t over.
In the underworld of their lust, obsession had birthed something darker than love and twice as hungry. And the man who had knelt in front of her last—who had whispered her name like prayer and poison—was nowhere to be seen.
⸻
Garrison’s fingers trembled as he lit the cigarette.
He hadn’t smoked in six years.
Not since the day his mother had thrown herself from the penthouse balcony, her pearls strangling her neck like a noose mid-fall. He’d held onto the memory of her body falling—slow-motion horror—as a reason to stay sane, to stay above it all.
But tonight?
Sanity was a bleeding joke.
He had fucked her like a monster.
He had kissed her like a man possessed.
And then she’d torn him apart with her eyes, with her silence, with the way she didn’t even need to scream to make his soul crack open.
The mirror reflected his broken jawline and the bruising on his ribs—remnants of Eella’s wrath. She hadn’t gone quietly. He wouldn’t have wanted her to.
“Let it burn,” he muttered, exhaling smoke that tasted like regret.
She had awakened something ancient in him. Something primal. Something not even the Covenant could cage. Lazarus had tried to weaponize Eella. Had tried to make her the key to the apocalypse. But Garrison had seen the truth when he’d looked into her eyes.
She wasn’t a key.
She was the fucking door.
And every monster inside him wanted to crawl through.
⸻
She found him in the basement.
Because of course he would be there.
Garrison never faced the light after breaking something beautiful.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t slam the door. She just stood there—naked, blood-smeared, eyes on fire—and waited for him to look up.
When he did, his cigarette fell from his fingers and burned a hole into the velvet carpet.
“I almost killed you,” he said.
Her smile was ice. “You should’ve.”
He moved toward her like a storm, but she didn’t flinch. She tilted her chin up, daring, defiant, divine.
His hands found her throat—not to choke, but to feel. To press his thumbs against the pulse that reminded him she was still his. Still alive.
Still burning.
“I loved you,” he rasped.
“You don’t know how.”
“I’ll learn.”
He kissed her like a man dying, and she bit his lip until it bled.
They fell against the wall in a tangle of limbs and madness. Her hands clawed his shirt away. His mouth bruised every inch of her until she moaned curses into his ear.
“You want to own me,” she panted.
“No,” he growled. “I want to lose myself inside you.”
And he did.
They broke the world open between their bodies. The sex wasn’t love. It was annihilation. It was agony. It was revenge and addiction and the end of everything soft.
She cried when she came.
Not from pleasure.
From truth.
Because there was no going back now. Not for either of them.
⸻
Two hours later, she lay beside him, staring at the ceiling as his blood dried under her nails.
“Lazarus is gone,” she whispered.
“No. He’s hiding. Wounded gods don’t die—they evolve.”
“We have to end this.”
He turned to face her. “We?”
She met his eyes, and for once, there was no seduction. No shield.
Just devastation.
“You think I’m still yours?” she asked.
“You’ve always been mine,” he said, brushing a knuckle down her spine. “But I’m willing to share. With the darkness. With the rage. With whatever’s left inside you.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she didn’t wipe it away.
“I’m not the girl you broke anymore,” she said. “I’m the woman who’s going to burn everything down.”
He smiled.
And in the distance, the city’s power grid flickered.
Because war was coming.
Not with armies.
With obsessions.
With betrayals.
With lust so dark it tasted like blood.
And they were ready to eat the world alive.
Eella’s world collapsed under her boots.
The sky bled orange, the skyline twisted into spires of flame like desperate fingers clawing at the heavens. She stood on the rooftop of the Azure Spire, rain sizzling on hot concrete, her body still humming from the last war with Lazarus’s Choir. The wind carried screams—sirens, distant anger, the metallic snap of a world on the brink.
But beneath it all was a heartbeat. Not hers. Not Garrison’s. Someone else’s, pounding through the wires and cables that snaked up the building, into the penthouse, into her veins.
She didn’t hesitate.
When the door swung open, Garrison was there—coat soaked, eyes blacker than the storm. He didn’t speak. He just stepped aside.
A man entered.
Tall. Lean. Leather boots soaked in rain. Silver hair plastered to a face etched in rage and regret.
“James,” Garrison whispered.
Eella braced herself. James Wolfe—Garrison’s brother, declared dead in the Venezuelan coup six years ago. The brother who vanished, leaving Garrison to carry the Wolfe legacy alone.
Standing there now, James looked alive. Too alive. Heart beating through his chest like hammered steel.
“You should’ve stayed dead,” Garrison said, voice low.
James smiled—a slash of memory and menace. “And miss the finale? Please.”
Eella watched, heart pounding. Two wolves confronting each other in the storm—blood on their hands, hatred in their blood.
James took a step forward.
Garrison’s fist tightened.
“Release her,” James said quietly.
Eella realized then—he spoke to her.
The lightning split the sky.
Garrison didn’t move.
James turned to Eella, eyes softening. “You don’t belong to him.”
She flinched. “I belong to me.”
James nodded. “Then go.”
She looked at Garrison.
He said nothing.
James tapped his temple. “He’s broken. Choir code still lingers—he’s a weapon without a target.”
Eella’s stomach twisted. “What do you want?”
James smiled, and it was not a friendly gesture. “Choice.”
In the silence, the storm paused.
Three questions hung in the air:
Would Eella follow Garrison into endless ruin?
Would she flee with James into the unknown?
Or would she finally choose herself?
Her breath caught.
Before she could answer, James’s gaze flicked upward—
The sky cracked open, and something fell.
A woman.
Clad in black leather, wings of shattered glass trailing behind her.
Darcie.
Alive again.
But no longer human.
Her eyes glowed, and her lips twisted into a promise.
Eella screamed—