His Private Hell - Chapter 48: Chapter 48

Ruin Me Slowly
Eella didn’t sleep.
Not really.
Her body lay still in the cold silk of Garrison’s sheets, but her mind burned. Her skin still tingled where his mouth had left bruises, where his hands had torn down the walls she’d spent her whole life pretending didn’t exist.
The city buzzed beneath the penthouse like a thousand tiny secrets. Above it all, locked away in a castle made of glass and blood money, she turned her head and stared at the man lying beside her.
Garrison Wolfe.
His back was to her, all rigid control even in sleep. One arm beneath the pillow, the other stretched toward her, resting inches from her hip like a leash he didn’t have to pull. She didn’t know how to define what had happened between them. It wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t making love. It was… consumption. The kind you only survived if you were lucky—or broken enough not to notice what you’d lost.
She slipped out of bed, her legs weak and sore, wearing only one of his black shirts that smelled of cedar, rain, and lust. She walked barefoot through the apartment, trailed her fingers along the wall like she needed to remind herself she still existed outside of him.
Her phone blinked on the kitchen counter. She hadn’t checked it in hours. Dozens of messages, most from Ronnie and Ollie. One from Darcie.
She stared at it.
You don’t know what you’ve done. He never let me leave the 33rd. Are you sure you’re not just a prettier version of the same mistake?
The screen timed out. Her heart didn’t.
She turned and nearly jumped—he was standing behind her, half in shadow, half in moonlight. Shirtless. Barefoot. And watching her like she was a sin he wanted to commit again. And again.
“You left the bed.”
“You were asleep.”
“I knew the second your side went cold.”
“I needed water.”
His gaze flicked to the bottle untouched on the counter. “You’re lying.”
She swallowed. “Darcie messaged me.”
His jaw ticked. He said nothing.
“She said you never let her leave the 33rd floor.” Her voice dropped. “Is that true?”
A long silence.
Then: “I let her leave. Eventually.”
“But not before you—”
“I don’t keep women in my office, Eella.”
She folded her arms, chilled now. “Then what was she?”
Garrison stepped closer. “The first mistake I ever made.”
“And I’m what? The second?”
He reached her in three strides, crowding her back against the cool marble island. “No,” he growled low. “You’re the addiction I never planned for.”
His hands slid under the hem of his shirt—on her—and yanked her forward, lifting her onto the counter as if she weighed nothing. His mouth found hers, fierce and bruising. She shoved at his chest.
“No. You don’t get to silence me with sex.”
“I’m not trying to silence you,” he rasped, dragging her legs open, stepping between them. “I’m trying to remind you why the truth doesn’t matter anymore.”
“You said—” She gasped when he bit her lip. “You said you don’t lie.”
“I don’t. But there are things I don’t explain. Not because I want to control you.” His hand wrapped around her throat—not tight, not painful, just there. Reminding. Possessive. “But because I can’t afford to lose you.”
She blinked. “Lose me?”
“You don’t know what kind of man I used to be.” His fingers tightened slightly, enough to make her pulse throb. “Darcie was weak. And I was cruel to weakness.”
“What about me?”
“You’re strong.” His eyes darkened. “So strong, I want to ruin you just to see what’s underneath.”
She gasped—but it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t revulsion. It was desire. Pure, raw, sickeningly real. “Then ruin me.”
He didn’t need more invitation.
He dropped to his knees, dragged her forward until the backs of her thighs kissed the edge of the marble. Her head fell back when his mouth met her, licking into her like he was starved. He didn’t rush. He devoured. Fingers bruising her hips, tongue stroking, curling, punishing with pleasure. She writhed. Clutched his hair. Moaned his name like a prayer she knew no god would answer.
“Garrison—”
“You want to talk about the 33rd floor?” he snarled against her skin, lips wet with her arousal. “Let me show you what I did to her.”
He rose and flipped her over the counter, yanking her hips up, her face pressed to the cold granite. The shirt barely covered anything. His palm slid up her spine. “She liked to be watched.”
Her stomach flipped.
“She liked mirrors.” He reached around and shoved a bowl off the counter with a crash. “She liked crying while she begged.”
Her knees went weak.
“But you—” he said, voice guttural, “you like being destroyed.”
He slammed into her, hard enough to make her cry out. No pretense. No gentleness. Just raw, vicious rhythm that stole every breath from her lungs.
His hand found her hair, yanked her head back. “Say it.”
“I—fuck—Garrison—”
“Say what you are.”
She bit her lip. “Yours.”
He growled. “Say it louder.”
“Yours!”
He pulled out, spun her around, lifted her like she weighed nothing and carried her back to the bed, threw her onto the sheets.
He climbed on top, one hand fisting the headboard. His other gripped her throat again as he thrust into her so deep she screamed.
“Mine,” he whispered against her ear. “Every inch. Every thought. Every fucking breath.”
She broke.
And when she came, he didn’t stop. Not until she was shaking. Not until she sobbed his name.
Not until she collapsed, completely and utterly wrecked.
Hours passed in silence.
They lay tangled together, breathing each other in like they might disappear. And maybe they would. But for now, they stayed.
Then, quietly:
“I want to see it,” she whispered.
Garrison didn’t move. “See what?”
“The 33rd floor.”
He exhaled. “No.”
“Why?”
“Because the last woman I let in there walked out with a part of me I never got back.”
She turned her face into his chest. “Maybe I can give it back to you.”
He didn’t answer.
But he held her tighter.
⸻
The next morning, Eella sat in her office, a black scarf hiding the bruises blooming across her neck. Ronnie stared at her from across the desk, arms crossed.
“Are you high?”
“What?”
“You came in here humming.”
“So?”
“You only hum when you’re getting laid—or about to be fired.”
“Maybe both,” Eella muttered.
Ronnie leaned forward. “Is this about Wolfe?”
Eella blinked. “You know?”
“I’m not blind. You’ve got the look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘he rearranged my insides and now I can’t sit properly’ look.”
Eella flushed. “Ronnie—”
“Just be careful. Garrison Wolfe isn’t a man. He’s a goddamn illness.”
“Maybe I’m the cure.”
Ronnie rolled her eyes. “Or maybe you’re the next obituary.”
Before Eella could respond, Ollie burst in, wild-eyed. “You need to come see this.”
“What?”
“In the lobby.”
They followed him down to the building’s entrance, where security had formed a barricade. On the floor were roses. Hundreds of them. All black.
A single card in the middle.
You opened the door.
Now you can’t close it.
—D
Garrison appeared beside her, silent, unreadable.
He picked up the card. Read it. Then tore it in half.
“Lock the floor,” he said to security.
“But—”
“Now.”
Then he turned to Eella. “You’re coming with me.”
“Where?”
His jaw clenched. “The 33rd floor.”