Chapter 232

**Evelyn's POV**

"I want you, Evelyn. Here. Now."

Dorian's words scorched my skin like a brand. His weight pinned me to the mattress, his body radiating an unnatural heat. I pushed against his chest, anger flaring through my veins.

"Are you insane?" I hissed, struggling beneath him. "Get off me!"

His lips curved into that arrogant smirk I'd grown to despise. "You're my wife, Evelyn. Why shouldn't I touch you?"

The silk sheets beneath me rustled as I fought to free myself. My mind raced to Ella, alone and terrified in the guest room. What if she tried to leave? What if James decided she knew too much?

"I said get off!" I shoved harder, but Dorian caught my wrists, pressing them into the pillow above my head.

"You let Liam touch you," he said suddenly, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You let him touch you, but not me?"

I froze, stunned by the accusation. Then, deciding to hit where it hurt, I let my lips form a cruel smile.

"Yes," I breathed, meeting his stare. "And with him, I don't need to be asked. I undress myself."

I watched his expression darken, a storm gathering in those gray-green eyes. His grip tightened on my wrists until I could feel my pulse throbbing against his fingers.

"What does he have that I don't?" Dorian demanded, his face inches from mine. "What makes him better?"

"Chemistry," I replied coldly. "Compatibility. A connection that doesn't feel like a business transaction."

He moved so quickly I barely had time to react. His mouth crashed down on mine, the kiss brutal and possessive. I tasted blood as his teeth caught my lower lip.

"Three years," he murmured against my mouth. "You've probably forgotten what it feels like to be with me."

The coppery taste of my own blood fueled my rage. When he loosened his grip to trail his hand down my side, I seized my chance. I bit down hard on his lip, savoring his grunt of pain.

He pulled back, touching his lip with surprise. "I've had too much to drink," he muttered. "That wine... there was something wrong with it."

"If Mr. Blackwood is looking for entertainment, perhaps he should find it elsewhere," I suggested, my voice flat and clinical. "There are plenty of willing women in Los Angeles."

His eyes narrowed. "Perhaps I should find another woman in this house."

"Be careful," I warned. "She might cut your throat while you sleep."

Dorian's laugh held no humor. "Blake Thompson learned what happens to those who cross me. I could incapacitate her hands first, then take what I want."

Disgust washed over me like a wave. "You're sick. A psychopath."

Instead of answering, he grabbed my hand and guided it beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. His skin burned against my palm, unnaturally hot.

"What did you take?" I asked, medical concern momentarily overriding my anger.

"The bottle James brought," he admitted, his breathing labored. "It wasn't just medicinal wine."

He pressed closer, his body trapping mine against the mattress. Despite everything, my treacherous body responded to his proximity, to the familiar scent of his skin beneath the feverish heat. I hated myself for it, hated him more.

Our struggle continued, a dance of resistance and advance. His hands wandered, igniting unwanted sparks beneath my skin. I bit my lip to stay silent, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing my response.

Then, in a moment of weakness, as his mouth found that sensitive spot below my ear, a name escaped my lips. The wrong name.

"Hunter..."

Dorian went rigid above me. The temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees in an instant.

"What did you just say?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet.

I blinked, feigning confusion. "What? Liam? I thought you didn't care."

"Evelyn." The way he said my name made my blood run cold. "You're doing this deliberately, aren't you? You know exactly whose name you called."

"Why does a name matter to you?" I challenged, even as my heart hammered against my ribs.

"You called for Hunter Pierce."

At the sound of Hunter's name on Dorian's lips, something inside me shattered. My vision blurred with unshed tears, my body instinctively curling inward as if to protect a wound.

"Hunter Pierce has been dead for years," Dorian continued, merciless in his precision. "Don't tell me you're still pining for him."

The dam broke. Years of carefully contained grief and rage flooded through me.

"How did he die? You know better than anyone!" I spat, each word a bullet aimed at his heart. "It was you, Dorian! Why should I forget? I remember every detail of his final days. Every humiliation you inflicted on him felt like lashes across my own skin. I can't forget it—and neither should you!"

Tears streamed down my face, hot and unchecked. I made no move to wipe them away, letting Dorian see the raw pain he'd caused.

He pulled back, something unreadable flickering across his features. "If you're so devoted to his memory, what's going on with Liam?" he asked, his voice strangely hollow.

"Liam is Liam. Hunter was Hunter." I laughed bitterly through my tears. "Life goes on, Mr. Blackwood. Stop dragging Hunter's name through the mud. Stop desecrating his memory. What's the point?"

Dorian moved away from me, sitting at the edge of the bed. The drug-induced fever seemed to have broken, leaving him looking almost vulnerable.

"It's you," he said quietly. "You're the one who can't let him go."

I curled into myself, my tears soaking into the pillowcase. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken truths and buried secrets.

Dorian and I locked eyes across the battlefield of rumpled sheets. In that moment, I saw something in his gaze I'd never seen before—uncertainty. Maybe even regret.

But I knew better than to trust any emotion from Dorian Blackwood. After all, I had trusted him once.

And I would never make that mistake again.