His Private Hell - Chapter 89: Chapter 89

The sound of Garrison’s breath was the only thing anchoring Eella to the floor.
That—and the bite of glass beneath her knees.
Shards sparkled across the marble in the aftermath of her impulsive destruction, a shattered crystal decanter dripping whiskey like blood around her palms. Garrison hadn’t moved since she’d thrown it. He stood by the door, jaw clenched, tie hanging limp from his neck, his eyes unreadable as they pinned her to her chaos.
“Are you finished?” His voice was low. Controlled. Barely.
She wasn’t.
“You lied to me,” she rasped, her voice trembling, hoarse from screaming. “You stood in front of me with her blood on your hands and told me I was different.”
“You are.”
Her laugh was ugly. “Then why does the 33rd floor still smell like Darcie’s perfume?”
He flinched.
It was small. Barely a twitch. But Eella saw it. And it shattered what little of her restraint still held.
“You buried her,” she said, rising slowly to her feet, glass crunching beneath her heels. “You buried her and locked the memory behind that floor and you think if you fuck me hard enough I’ll forget that I was never the first.”
“I never said you were the first,” he growled, stepping forward, his control cracking. “I said you were the only one who got this far.”
“And how far is that, Garrison?” She spread her arms, blood on her hands now, too. “Bleeding for you? On my knees? Screaming your name while ghosts claw at the walls?”
His mouth crashed onto hers with a violence that felt like punishment. His hands gripped her face, her throat, her waist—then spun her into the wall with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. Eella gasped, the cool marble kissing her cheek as his body caged hers in.
“You want ghosts?” he snarled against her ear. “You’re sleeping in my grave, Eella. You don’t get to cry about the bones.”
She trembled—but didn’t push him away. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Instead, she arched back into him, hungry for the fire, for the destruction he offered like salvation.
His fingers tore open the buttons of her blouse, slipping beneath the silk to find skin and secrets. He kissed the curve of her neck, teeth grazing the spot just beneath her ear where he knew her pulse jumped like prey.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
“Never.”
He spun her again and lifted her in one brutal motion, setting her on the desk, his mouth already at her breast, his hands stripping her open like a secret he could finally read. Her legs wrapped around his waist, dragging him close, desperate to feel him, all of him, even the monsters she knew he’d never confess to out loud.
“You think Darcie was the worst of me?” he murmured against her skin. “You haven’t even seen what hell looks like in daylight, Eella.”
“Show me,” she dared.
He did.
He dragged her panties down with one hand and shoved into her with the other, no warning, no tenderness—just possession. Eella cried out, not in pain but in stunned, electric relief. She was full of him—his fury, his memory, his punishment.
Each thrust was brutal. Deep. Intentional.
He drove into her like he was trying to erase someone else from her body.
But he didn’t have to.
There had never been anyone else who felt like this.
She moaned, head falling back as her nails dug into his shoulder. He kissed her throat again, then bit. Sharp enough to sting. Hard enough to mark.
“You want me to say I loved her?” he snarled. “I didn’t. She loved me. But I loved the way she let me bleed without flinching. Just like you do.”
Eella cried out as he hit a spot inside her that shattered everything. The desk creaked under them, her body slick and burning.
“Say my name,” he demanded.
She did. Again. And again. Until it was the only thing between her sobs.
Then he pulled out.
She whimpered, the loss unbearable.
But he wasn’t done.
He dragged her down to the floor, onto the glass.
She didn’t care. Didn’t feel it.
He slid into her again, gripping her hips like she was the only thing left in the world that could keep him grounded.
And when they came—together—it was like drowning.
Like dying.
Like being born in fire.
The silence afterward was louder than any scream. He stayed inside her, chest heaving, arms trembling.
“I can’t be what you want,” he said quietly. “Not the man. Just the monster.”
She curled her fingers around his wrist. “Good. I stopped believing in men a long time ago.”
And then the world shattered again.
Not from them—but from the phone that buzzed on the desk.
One name. A single word.
Darcie.
Eella’s blood ran cold.
Garrison froze.
She pushed him off her with a strength born of betrayal. His voice caught behind her, but she didn’t wait.
She snatched the phone. Opened the message.
You never buried me properly. You just covered the rot. And now it’s spreading.
Attached was a photo.
Grainy. Surveillance-style.
Of Eella. Last night. Outside her apartment. Smiling at Garrison.
Taken from above. From somewhere… high.
Her hands shook.
“What is this?” she breathed.
He didn’t answer.
Because he knew.
He knew the room it was taken from. The angle. The building.
The 33rd floor.
“She’s dead,” he said, as if it would fix anything. “I saw her. I watched the light go out of her eyes.”
“Then what the fuck is this?” Eella screamed, shoving the phone in his face. “A ghost with a cell plan?”
But he was already moving.
He grabbed his jacket, hit a button on the wall. Alarms flared. Lights turned red.
Eella stood frozen in the middle of the wreckage, heart pounding.
And then—
Boom.
The floor shook. Somewhere, far below them, something detonated.
Garrison’s head whipped toward the window.
“Get dressed. We’re not safe here.”
“You’re going to have to give me more than that,” she snapped, yanking her blouse on with fingers that didn’t stop shaking.
“There are people who think I should’ve died with her,” he growled. “People who don’t care who they have to bury to make that happen.”
Eella stared at him. “Is that what you were doing all this time? Running from a ghost?”
“No.” He met her eyes. “I was preparing for her return.”
He held out his hand.
She didn’t take it.
But she followed him anyway.