His Private Hell - Chapter 66: Chapter 66

The elevator hadn’t even stopped humming when Eella pressed the emergency button.
They weren’t going to make it to the penthouse. Not without losing control.
Garrison spun her around, his palm braced against the mirrored wall. “You wanted this,” he whispered against her ear, voice like velvet dragged over a blade. “Now take it.”
Eella’s breath stuttered. Her back arched on instinct. He didn’t wait for her answer. His hand slid up her skirt, found the soaked lace that had long stopped pretending to be modesty, and ripped them clean off. His mouth crashed into hers again. Bruising. Dominant. His tongue tangled with hers, while his fingers teased her in slow, sinful circles until her knees buckled.
“Every damn floor in this building should hear what you sound like when you break for me,” he rasped.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” he growled, biting her shoulder. “You’re mine.”
The elevator jolted, but didn’t move. Stalled. Locked in their private world of shadows and hunger and need.
And then his mouth was between her thighs, dragging fire through her veins with every flick of his tongue. She clawed at his hair, at his jacket, at anything that could anchor her as he devoured her like she was his only salvation.
By the time she came, screaming his name into the silence, the red emergency light painted his face in something unholy. Something addicted. And she knew, without question, this man would burn the entire building to the ground just to touch her like this again.
And that was the most terrifying part.
The elevator chimed.
The doors opened.
Garrison stood, wiped his mouth, adjusted his cuffs, and looked down at her like she was a secret only he had ever dared to read.
“You belong to my hell now, Eella,” he said, and held out his hand.
She took it.
And stepped off the elevator into something far worse than sin.
•
The penthouse was silent. Too silent.
Her heels clicked against the polished floors as they entered, but every instinct screamed danger. Not from Garrison. From the quiet. From the way he moved, like a predator who had heard another hunter breathing in his den.
He turned to her, something unreadable flickering in those molten eyes.
“Stay here.”
She didn’t.
She followed him past the glass walls, down the hallway lined with curated art and haunting photographs. But it was the faint sound from the farthest room that made both of them pause.
A laugh.
Darcie’s laugh.
Garrison’s hand twitched at his side. Then he moved—fast, silent, lethal—and Eella barely kept up.
The door was cracked. Just enough.
Inside, Darcie lounged on the velvet settee, legs crossed, a glass of blood-red wine in one hand.
“Well,” she purred. “Look who finally came home.”
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Darcie’s smile didn’t falter. “You changed the security codes, but not the elevator override. Sloppy, Garrison. Almost like you were distracted.”
She tilted her head toward Eella. “By her.”
“Get out.”
Darcie stood, sauntering toward them with a grace that belied the venom in her gaze.
“She’s not built for this,” she said to him, but her eyes pinned Eella. “You think you’ve tamed the monster, sweetheart? You haven’t seen what he did to me. To the others.”
“Enough,” Garrison growled.
But Eella didn’t flinch.
She stepped forward, her voice quiet but lethal. “You think I don’t know what he is? I’ve seen more of his hell than you ever stayed long enough to understand.”
Darcie laughed. “You think sex makes you special? There were women before you. Women after me. What he did to us on that 33rd floor…”
Garrison moved, pinning Darcie against the wall with one hand around her throat—not choking, but holding her with the kind of controlled fury that made the air freeze.
“That’s not your story to tell.”
Darcie’s smile twisted. “Is it hers?”
He didn’t answer. Just released her, turned, and walked straight to the hidden door behind the bookshelf.
Eella’s heart thudded.
She hadn’t seen him go near that door in weeks.
He opened it.
The 33rd floor wasn’t a floor.
It was a shrine.
A prison.
A memory, buried in black velvet and chains.
Eella stepped inside.
There were no windows. Just walls lined with soundproof padding, mirrors on the ceiling, a sleek bed bolted to the center of the floor. And a scent—faint, musky, erotic—like sin had left its mark behind.
“This,” Darcie said from the doorway, “is who he really is.”
Eella turned to Garrison. “Is it?”
He didn’t deny it.
“I built this when I was seventeen,” he said. “Inherited the company at twenty. Everyone wanted a piece of me. I didn’t know who to trust. So I created a space where no one could lie to me. Where pain told the truth.”
“And Darcie?”
“She begged to be let in. I gave her what she wanted. She couldn’t handle it.”
“Fuck you,” Darcie snapped.
Garrison didn’t look at her. His eyes were on Eella.
“I shut it down. Locked it up. Until you.”
Her breath caught.
“Why me?”
“Because you weren’t afraid,” he said. “Because you screamed and still wanted more. Because I don’t know what to do with you, Eella. And it terrifies me.”
The silence stretched.
Then Eella stepped forward, stood on that sleek, cold floor with bare feet and burning skin.
She looked up at him and whispered, “Show me.”
His jaw clenched. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I’m not asking.”
The door slammed behind them.
•
The chains were velvet-lined. The cuffs custom-fit. The mirror above the bed reflected Garrison’s face as he watched her surrender to each restraint, her wrists spread wide, ankles bound to the bedposts, her heart racing with something between terror and lust.
“I’ll stop,” he murmured, “if you say red.”
She didn’t.
His hands traced her thighs, her stomach, her breasts.
“You are not safe here,” he whispered, eyes like fire. “But you are mine.”
He took his time.
Every kiss, every lick, every bite was a brand. A promise. He worshipped her and wrecked her, dragged her body through sensations that blurred pain and pleasure until she wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began.
And when he slid inside her, it wasn’t just sex.
It was possession.
Her moans echoed off padded walls.
The mirror fogged.
And Garrison whispered, again and again, like a broken prayer, “You’re mine. My private hell. My fucking salvation.”
She came undone.
And in the aftermath, as he lay beside her, fingers still tangled in her hair, his voice barely audible, she finally heard it.
The truth.
“She wasn’t the first,” he said. “Darcie.”
“I know.”
“But she found out about the fire.”
Eella stilled.
“What fire?”
He hesitated. “The one that killed my brother.”
A pause.
“I thought you said he died in a car crash.”
Garrison’s voice dropped to a rasp.
“That was the story I sold to the press. But the truth is, I lit the match.”
The room fell silent.
The chains no longer felt like props.
They felt like prophecy.
•
When they left the 33rd floor, Darcie was gone.
But something worse waited for them on Garrison’s penthouse tablet.
An email.
No sender. No subject. Just one image.
A photo.
Eella asleep.
Naked.
In her own bed.
The angle was close. Too close.
Her blood ran cold.
Garrison’s hand fisted on the table. “This was last night.”
Her breath hitched. “How do you know?”
“The timestamp,” he said. “And the fucking reflection in the glass.”
He zoomed in.
And there it was.
A face.
Not clear, but unmistakable.
Ronnie.
Darcie’s brother.
One of the men Garrison had blacklisted from Ally’s Inc after the board scandal.
A man who’d always been obsessed with power.
With control.
With her?
The message was clear.
They weren’t alone in this game.
And the hell they’d built was about to be burned from the outside.
Garrison looked at Eella, a fury igniting behind his eyes that made everything in her body recoil and lean in all at once.
“They want a war,” he said.
She nodded.
“Then give them hell.”