His Private Hell - Chapter 47: Chapter 47

The Monster's Kiss.
Eella didn’t scream when she saw Darcie’s name etched into the wall of the 33rd floor.
She couldn’t.
The air had been sucked from her lungs the moment Garrison’s mouth left her neck, the imprint of his teeth still pulsing over her collarbone like a brand. He hadn’t meant for her to see it—not yet. The flicker of unfiltered fury in his eyes made that painfully clear. But the name was there, written in something darker than ink. Older. Like it had been carved into the drywall with desperation.
DAR-CIE.
Each letter ragged. Each stroke trembling.
“You kept it,” she whispered, touching the wall with a reverence she didn’t understand.
Garrison’s hand clamped around her wrist. “Don’t romanticize it. That name doesn’t deserve to echo here.”
But his voice betrayed him.
Because it already did.
Eella turned slowly to face him. He was still half-dressed, shirt tugged loose, belt hanging open from their earlier madness in his penthouse. His chest rose and fell like he was struggling to hold himself back—and failing.
“She was here,” she said, no longer a question.
Garrison’s jaw tightened. “It’s not what you think.”
“You locked her in here?”
“No.”
“You hurt her?”
“No.”
But his voice cracked, and Eella felt it down her spine. She took a slow step closer, ignoring the danger, ignoring the warning flashing behind his eyes. “Then what did you do to her, Garrison?”
He looked like a man unraveling. “I let her inside.”
The silence that followed was worse than any confession. It wasn’t what he did to Darcie that terrified Eella—it was what Darcie had done to him.
And how much of her was still in him.
“You think you’re the only one who knows how to bleed?” he asked her softly.
“I think I might be the only one who wants to understand why you do.”
That broke something.
He grabbed her so fast her back slammed into the door. His mouth crashed over hers, brutal and punishing, hands skating down her sides and grabbing the backs of her thighs. She gasped against his lips, clawed at his shoulders, but she didn’t stop him. God help her, she never wanted him to stop.
“You should’ve run,” he whispered into her mouth, voice fraying. “Before I wanted to keep you.”
She reached down between them, her fingers brushing the waistband of his slacks. “You already have me.”
He lifted her effortlessly. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her skirt bunching high as he pressed her harder into the wood. His hips surged forward, grinding against the soaked silk of her panties until she whimpered.
“Then don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
His mouth trailed down her throat, tongue flicking across the place he’d bitten. She jerked at the contact, already trembling, already wet.
“You’re shaking,” he muttered.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be.”
Eella’s lips ghosted over his jaw. “Maybe I like dancing with monsters.”
He groaned low in his chest. Then, without another word, he shoved the door open and dragged her into the cursed room.
The 33rd floor was not what she expected.
No chains. No blood. No signs of the twisted legend employees whispered about.
Just a room with a bed.
But the energy inside it was suffocating.
It felt haunted.
By secrets. By shame. By her.
Garrison dropped Eella onto the mattress and stared down at her like he couldn’t decide whether to worship her or destroy her. Then he crawled over her, one hand gripping her jaw, the other pulling down her panties in a swift, rough motion.
“You taste like danger,” he said, pushing two fingers between her thighs, spreading the heat already pouring out of her. “You smell like sin.”
“Then fuck me like it.”
He did.
He pushed inside her so fast, so hard, she cried out, back arching off the bed. There was no rhythm. No tenderness. Only need. He pounded into her like he was trying to fuck Darcie’s ghost out of his memory, like Eella’s body could exorcise every sin he’d buried under that name.
And she let him.
She met every thrust with her own, nails digging into his back, teeth scraping his shoulder, until they were one writhing mass of sweat and moans and pain. She came first, screaming, head thrown back. He didn’t stop. He chased her climax with a second, then a third, his control unraveling as her body welcomed every inch of him.
Then he pulled out and flipped her over, dragging her hips up to meet his again.
“You want the monster?” he growled into her ear. “Say it.”
“I want the monster.”
“Louder.”
“I want the fucking monster, Garrison!”
He slammed back into her, and this time, it wasn’t about forgetting Darcie.
It was about claiming Eella.
About making her scream his name loud enough to drown out every other.
He reached around her, fingers rubbing fast over her clit until she shattered again, body buckling under him, nails raking the sheets. Then he spilled inside her with a roar, collapsing on top of her like a man destroyed.
They lay there for minutes, tangled in sweat and guilt and something neither of them could name.
But the silence didn’t last.
Because when Eella rolled over to look at him, she said the one thing that shattered him more than any betrayal.
“I’m not her, Garrison.”
He stared at the ceiling. “I know.”
“And I’m not leaving.”
His eyes snapped to hers. “Even now?”
“Especially now.”
And that’s when she saw it—the flicker of fear in his expression. Not of her. Not even of Darcie.
But of the truth.
That he could lose this too.
Lose her.
“I need to show you something,” he said suddenly, rising from the bed and pulling his pants back on.
Eella frowned. “Now?”
“You wanted the truth. I’m giving it to you.”
She dressed quickly and followed him out of the room, her legs trembling but her spine steel. They walked in silence through the dim corridors of the upper floors, past doors no one else had keys to, past memories painted in shades of guilt.
He stopped in front of a small, locked room near his private archives.
Then he opened it.
Inside were pictures.
Not of Darcie.
Of every woman that had disappeared in Garrison’s orbit.
Eella’s breath left her again.
“I didn’t kill them,” he said softly. “But they all wanted something I couldn’t give.”
“What’s that?”
He looked her dead in the eyes.
“Love.”
She took a step toward the table. One of the photos was burned at the edges. Another had a lipstick stain across the corner. There were newspaper clippings, emails, letters. One page had blood on it.
“Why keep these?” she whispered.
“To remind myself what I am.”
She turned to him. “And what is that?”
“A man who poisons everything he touches.”
She stepped closer. “Then I’ll drink every drop.”
His eyes went wild.
And for the first time, Garrison Wolfe looked like the man beneath the monster—broken, blistered, bleeding.
But maybe not beyond saving.
She reached for him. “Let me see the rest.”
He grabbed her hand, pulled her close again. “You already are.”
He kissed her like it would be the last time, devouring her mouth, tongue sliding between her lips as if trying to memorize her taste. She moaned into him, pressed closer, already feeling him harden again against her hip.
“Here?” she gasped as he lifted her onto the desk.
“Here,” he growled.
And then his mouth was on her again, tongue tracing the line between her breasts as he pushed her top down, exposing her bare skin to the cool air of the archives.
His teeth grazed her nipple, and she cried out, grabbing at his hair.
He slid down between her thighs again, tongue licking a path up her inner thigh before he latched onto her clit with such brutal precision she nearly screamed.
“Garrison—”
“I’m not stopping,” he said. “Not until you forget every man who came before me.”
“I already have—”
He sucked harder.
She fell apart.
And when he stood, unbuckled, and thrust inside her again, it wasn’t rage that fueled him—it was obsession.
He didn’t just want her.
He wanted to keep her.
Break her.
Remake her.
Because she’d touched the match.
And now he was burning for her.
This was .
And she had just moved in.