His Private Hell - Chapter 94: Chapter 94

Garrison didn’t knock when he entered Eella’s apartment. He never did now.
He was already inside her head, inside her body, so deep in her bloodstream that permission had long since dissolved into something far more primitive. Dominance. Devotion. Destruction.
She was a storm he’d caged in silk. And now he wanted to feel it rip.
He found her barefoot in the kitchen, a silk robe loose at the waist, her hair still damp from a bath. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. Her spine stiffened like she felt his shadow crawl across the walls.
“Don’t say it,” she warned.
“Say what?” His voice was husky, dangerous.
The instant the elevator doors sealed shut behind them, Garrison spun her around and slammed his mouth against hers like the world was on fire. There was no prelude—only heat. Only need. Only the chaos she’d ignited in him from the moment she stepped into his life like a match hurled at a powder keg.
Her back hit the mirrored wall. His hand curled possessively around her throat, thumb tracing the frantic beat of her pulse as he kissed her harder, darker, deeper. Her moan vibrated into his mouth, and he drank it down like something holy.
“You think I can stop this?” he snarled, dragging her skirt up her thighs with rough, punishing tugs. “You think I want to?”
She gasped as his fingers found the heat between her legs, teasing her through silk already soaked with want. “Garrison—”
“Don’t say my name like that,” he growled. “You know what it does to me.”
She bit her lip, but her eyes burned with challenge. “Then stop me.”
A growl ripped from his chest. He hooked her leg around his waist and tore the panties clean off her, baring her to the cold air and his feverish touch. When he slid two fingers inside her, she nearly came apart.
“I don’t want to ruin you,” he whispered at her throat. “But I will.”
“I don’t want you to stop,” she whispered back, head falling back against the glass. “But you won’t.”
That broke him.
He dropped to his knees.
Right there. In a private elevator, somewhere between the 22nd and 33rd floor.
And worshipped her like sin deserved sacrifice.
“That I look like her.”
The silence that followed was damning.
Eella turned, lifting her chin. “You came here to hurt me?”
“I came here to remind you,” Garrison said darkly, “who I am.”
He reached her in three long strides, grabbed her throat—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to make her breath hitch—and kissed her like she was the answer to every question he should never have asked.
Her back hit the fridge. The magnets clattered to the floor.
“Do you want to bleed for me?” he whispered into her mouth.
“Yes,” she rasped.
“Then you’ll do it on my terms.”
He dropped to his knees.
Right there, in her kitchen, the CEO of Ally’s Inc unwrapped her robe like a gift, dragged her panties down her thighs, and buried his mouth between her legs with a ferocity that made her cry out.
Her knees buckled. He caught her. Held her there. Made her feel every ounce of punishment in his tongue.
“I’m not your cure,” he growled against her heat. “I’m your disease.”
And she came undone on his mouth with his name a scream torn from her soul.
The elevator shuddered softly as it climbed, but Garrison didn’t stop. Not when her nails clawed at the mirrored walls. Not when she gasped his name like a curse and a plea. He anchored her against the chrome paneling, hands splayed on her hips as his mouth worked her over with slow, brutal devotion. She was trembling. Burning. Falling.
And he watched her fall.
Watched the unraveling in her eyes like it was all he ever wanted—to ruin her so thoroughly she couldn’t remember the woman she’d been before him.
“God,” she breathed, her voice cracking. “Garrison—”
He stood in one swift motion, lips slick, fingers gripping her jaw.
“No,” he said darkly. “Say it like you mean it.”
She was panting, mascara smudged, lips kiss-bruised. “You want me to beg?”
“I want you to know,” he growled, his forehead pressed to hers, “that no matter how high you run, no matter what lies you tell yourself in the morning, you’ll still crave this. You’ll crave me.”
She couldn’t deny it. Wouldn’t. Not when her body betrayed her every second she touched him. Not when her mind was spiraling in a thousand directions but her heart throbbed only for the storm standing before her.
He kissed her again—this time slow. Devastating. With a dangerous reverence that nearly shattered her.
Then the elevator dinged.
Floor 33.
She froze.
So did he.
The door slid open in a quiet whisper, revealing the infamous, forgotten floor. Dust motes drifted in dead air. The lighting was dim, industrial, haunting. Rows of server cabinets lined one side; the other was a wide, glass-walled office. Sealed. Locked. Empty.
Or so it seemed.
Eella stepped out, her heels clicking softly as Garrison followed. Her breath caught in her throat when she turned to the office. Her pulse raced. The name on the frosted glass door had been wiped clean, but she saw the ghost of it.
Darcie Lane.
The dead woman. The obsession. The shadow she had never escaped.
“You said you sealed this floor,” she whispered.
“I did.”
“But you never let it go.”
“No,” he admitted. “Because it never let me go.”
She turned to face him, heart hammering. “Why bring me here?”
“Because you need to understand the hell you’ve stepped into. This place… it’s the root of everything. Every lie, every secret. Every fucking ghost I carry.”
Her throat tightened. “What happened here?”
He looked at the door like it would burn him alive. “She made me believe I was God. Then showed me I was just a monster.”
Eella’s hand brushed his.
The door creaked open.
And inside was not emptiness—but obsession. Dozens of photos of Darcie. Surveillance logs. Audio recordings. A wall of notes in Garrison’s handwriting—frantic, scrawled, unraveling.
This wasn’t just grief.
It was madness.
Eella’s breath hitched. “You kept this?”
“I needed to see the truth. Every day. Needed to remind myself who I became… and why I can never be trusted to love again.”
Silence.
Then—
“I’m not her,” Eella said quietly.
“I know,” he rasped. “But I’m terrified that I’ll destroy you the same way.”
She stepped into him. Close. Closer. Until nothing but air and fire separated them.
“Then destroy me,” she whispered. “But do it honestly.”
He grabbed her—hard. Mouth crashing to hers like a man finally accepting damnation. They fell backward against the glass desk, scattering files, shattering silence. She ripped his shirt open. He bared her throat with his teeth. Every movement was a declaration. Every breath a dare.
And when he pushed into her on that haunted desk, surrounded by the remnants of another woman’s ghost, it wasn’t just lust.
It was surrender.
They moved like war and worship—fast, fevered, breaking everything that stood between them. His hands bruised her hips. Her cries etched into his skin. And in the final crescendo, as her head tipped back and his name tore from her lips in a scream, something shifted.
Not just in them.
But in the room.
The lights flickered.
The speaker in the corner hissed—static.
Then a voice.
Not Eella’s. Not Garrison’s.
But Darcie’s.
“You can’t erase me, Garrison.”
Eella bolted upright.
Garrison’s blood ran cold.
And somewhere—maybe from the shadows or from a place far more terrifying—they both heard it again.
Laughter.
Darcie’s laughter.
And it didn’t sound dead at all.