INSATIABLE CRAVINGS
Insatiable Cravings - Episode 102
Subtitle; {Loving You Is A Loosing Game}
TAGS: Age-gap, Mafia, Forbidden Love, Drama, Tragedy and Betrayal.
Settings: United Kingdom, Russia and others.
★★★★★★★★★★★★★★★
~ Genevieve ~
I had been ignoring Dominic Morozov—yes, his full name, because I had been furious with him, and he had deserved it. And I had every intention of continuing to ignore him until I was satisfied.
This… this had been my little act of retribution.
He had brought this upon himself when he had the audacity to lie to my face for years without uttering a single word. He had concealed an entire part of his life from me. He hadn’t trusted me.
So yes, I had enjoyed it. I had relished every second of watching him endure even the smallest fraction of the paiñ I had gone through.
For three weeks, I had erased him from my world, acknowledging his existence only when absolutely necessary for work. And in those three weeks, I had watched him deteriorate. Each time I had passed him without so much as a glance, his shoulders had sunk further under the weight of despair. Each time he had attempted conversation—about anything other than work—and I had pretended not to hear, I had seen the struggle in his eyes, the way he had faltered before swallowing back whatever he had been about to say.
And then there had been the times he had succeeded in getting me to talk, only for me to cut him off, uninterested in whatever excuse he had been about to conjure. That had been when his eyes—those gorgeous, expressive eyes—had begun to glisten.
It had got me. Every. Bloódy. Time.
I didn’t think I would ever forget it. Me, Genevieve Dove King, capable of reducing one of the strongest men I knew—the Brà tva Dón, of all people—to tears.
Wasn’t that something? It sounded like something out of a novel.
And yet, nothing had compared to the twisted pleasure I had felt when I had seen him break. When I had watched a single tear slip down his cheek because he had known I was slipping away from him again, and there had been absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.
God, I had loved seeing him beg. There had been something sickeningly satisfying about it—the way his eyes had turned glassy, the way his voice had trembled. It had been almost pathétic. Almost. He had looked like a woúnded anÃmal, a kicked puppy, utterly lost without me. And it had fuelled something in me, something dark and wickéd, something that had whispered let him suffer.
But then, there had been another feeling beneath it, one I had refused to acknowledge—guilt.
No. I had shoved it aside. Dominic Morozov had needed to learn his lesson.
It had been his fault everything had gone so terribly wrong. His fault our perfect relationship had shattered. His fault I had spent four years reseñting an innocent girl I had once liked—only to discover she had been his bloódy baby sister.
It had all been his fault. And he had deserved to húrt too.
Maybe it had been cruél. Maybe I had been crul. But it hadn’t been as though I had enjoyed being heartless towards the man I… the man I couldn’t stop loving.
It had simply been necessary.
I had not made it easy for him. He had to work for it. For me. If he had truly wanted me back, the first step had been earning my forgiveness. And I hadn’t given that easily.
I had not been that easy.
And unfortunately for him, I had held grudges. I had taken my revenge. That had been why we had been a perfect match.
Had been.
Still, a little suffering had done him good. No pain, no gain, after all.
It had been just common sen—
A knock on the door had startled me from my thoughts. My gaze had darted towards it, and I had exhaled in relief.
That must have been the food delivery.
Excited for the meal I had been about to devour, I had strolled to the door, pulled it open—
And frozen.
Oh, how terrÃbly, lamentably wroñg I had been.
It hadn’t been the chicken I had ordered. It hadn’t been Liam, the house owner. Nor Jules, my best friend. Not Adrianna. Not Xavier.
It had been Dominic.
His hair had been tousled, like he had raked his fingers through it repeatedly. A few strands had fallen over his forehead, brushing against his brows like messy, unintentional bangs. His clothes, however—
My stomach had dropped. The smile had vanished from my face.
He had looked… Ã wful.
Not just tired. Not just misérable. Hollow.
A sharp pang of worry had shot through me, swift and unforgiving. And I had hatéd that I had felt it because I had already known—I had known—that I had been responsible for it.
But I couldn’t have afforded to be swayed. Not then.
“What are you doing here?” I had asked, my voice far too calm for the storm raging inside me.
The agony in his golden-brown eyes had been suffocating. It had been all-consuming, devouring every ounce of strength I had.
“How did you-” I had said, cutting him off before he could speak. “Why am I even asking? I know you. You probably mafia-ed your way into getting my address.”
Yes, I had known it wasn’t a real word. But who had said I couldn’t make it one?
“Can we please talk?” His voice had been rough, strained.
“You already know the answer to that.”
Too much? Maybe.
I hadn’t allowed myself the time to reconsider, because the longer I had stood there, the longer I had looked into those eyes, the weaker I had become.
Exhaling sharply, I had tightened my grip on the door handle. Just as I had been about to slam it shut, his foot had landed in the doorframe.
The door had jolted to a stop.
I had heard it—the barely perceptible hiss of pain that had slipped past his lips.
“Dominic, don’t.”
Had I been telling him not to húrt himself? Or had I been telling him to leave, before I had fallen for his bloódy charms again?
I hadn’t known.
“I just want to talk.”
And of course, he had been stubbórn.
“And I don’t.” My words had been sharper than intended, laced with something dangeroúsly close to desperation.
“Please.”
“No, Dominic.” My voice had trembled with barely restrained añger. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to show up here and pull that face to make me feel sorry for you.”
Calm down.
Calm down.
He had frowned, genuinely confused. Or had he been?
“What face?”
I had been breaking.
Losing control.
It had been like standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down into the abyss, knowing the slightest misstep would have sent me plummeting.
And the more I had looked at him, the more I had wanted to forgive him.
But if I had, I would have looked weak.
Pathétic.
Available.
I had let out a slow breath, waving a hand at him. “This face.” Inhale. Exhale. “The broken, wounded look you have on right now. I’m not falling for it. So leave.”
His next words had been a whisper. A plea.
“Have you even considered, just maybe, that I am broken? That I am hurtÃng? That you not talking to me is killiñg me?”
And there it had been.
His final attempt.
And then, I had slammed the door shut.
The moment the door slammed shut, my body betrayéd me.
I had barely managed to take a step back before my knees buckled, and I collapsed against the door, my back pressed to the wood as if I needed something—anything—to hold me up.
But nothing could hold me up.
Nothing could stop the weight of it all from crushing me.
A choked sound clawed its way up my throat, something between a sob and a gasp, as though my own body was struggling to process the enormity of the paiñ swelling inside me. It felt physical—a sharp, twisting thing lodged deep in my chest, burrowing into me like it wanted to make a home there.
I squeezed my eyes shut, as if that could somehow stop the tears. But they came anyway. Slow at first, silent. Then harder. Heavier. Until they were falling freely, hot and relentless, dripping off my chin and onto my trembling hands.
God, why did it húrt so much?
Why did he have to húrt so much?
This was what I had wanted. This was the plan. Make him súffer. Make him feel it. Make him pay for what he had done.
But why did it feel like I was the one being torn apart?
A sharp inhale. A desperate attempt to breathe through the agóny. But it didn’t help. It didn’t f+ckÃng help.
I pressed my hand to my chest, fingers curling against the fabric of my shirt, clutching at the spot where the paÃn pulsed the strongest. It felt like something was being ripped out of me—like something inside me was fracturing, piece by paÃnful piece, until there was nothing left but rà w, aching emptiness.
I shouldn’t have opened the door.
I shouldn’t have looked at him.
I shouldn’t have let myself see how exhausted he was, how utterly defeated he had looked standing there in front of me, like he had no idea what else to do.
Like I was his last hope.
And I had slammed the door in his face.
A broken sob burst past my lips, and I bit down on my knuckle, trying—failing—to muffle the sound. I hatéd this. I hatéd him for making me feel like this. But mostly, I hatéd myself.
Because even after everything he had done.
Even after all the lies.
Even after the years of húrt and betrà yal and rà ge.
I still wanted to open that f+ckiñg door.
I still wanted to run after him.
I still wanted him.
And wasn’t that the most pathétic thing of all?
My hands curled into fists against my lap, nails biting into my palms, trying to ground myself in the sharp sting. Trying to remind myself why I was doing this.
He deserved this paÃn.
But God, so did I.
I deserved every second of this agoñy.
Because I had let him in once.
I had given him everything—my heart, my trust, my love. And he had shattered it all without a second thought.
He had ruinéd us.
And now, we were just two people standing on opposite sides of a door.
Hurtiñg.
Bleediñg.
Dyiñg by inches.
I gasped, sucking in a ragged breath, but it didn’t fill my lungs the way it should have. It didn’t help.
Because how could I breathe when it felt like he had taken the air with him?
I could still hear his voice. Genevieve, please.
I could still see the way his face had twisted in anguish. Just maybe, I am broken.
My stomach clenched, nausea rolling through me in sickening waves.
I should have been happy. I should have felt victorious.
I had won, hadn’t I?
Then why did it feel like I had just lost everything all over again?
I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead, squeezing my eyes shut as fresh tears burned behind my lids. My chest ached with the effort of keeping it all in, of not breaking apart completely.
Because I couldn’t afford to break.
I couldn’t let myself fall for him again.
I couldn’t.
A shuddering breath.
I needed to stop this. I needed to pull myself together.
But then, as if the universe itself wanted to make this harder, I heard it.
Footsteps.
Fading.
Leaving.
My breath hitched.
He was leaving?
I should have been relieved. I should have felt like I had finally won.
But all I felt was—
No.
I clenched my jaw, biting back whatever this feeling was.
I would not open that door.
I would not chase after him.
I would not let Dominic Morozov break me again.
I repeated the words in my head like a mantra, over and over, trying to convince myself.
But deep down, I already knew.
I was already broken.
..
He was still out there.
He didn't leave.
I knew it before I even checked. I could feel him.
An invisible tether pulled me toward the door, heavy and unrelenting. I had spent hours pacing, pressing my hands against my chest, willing my heart to stop clenching every time I thought about him sitting out there.
And I had cried. God, I had cried. Turns out that I am not as emotionally strong as I thought I was when it comes to Dominic Morozov.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that after everything, after all the húrt and the angér, a part of me still ached for him.
But it did.
And now, as I stood frozen in front of the door, my fingers curled into fists, I hated that my body betrayéd me.
That my heart still wanted.
I inhaled sharply.
I could leave him there.
I could pretend I didn’t care.
I could let him rot in his guilt and cold and regret.
But then what?
We’d keep running in circles, keep húrting each other until there was nothing left of us but resentmént.
And despite everything—I didn’t want that.
I couldn’t want that.
With a deep breath, I reached for the handle.
And I opened the door.
As quietly as I tried to open the door—hoping, praying that I might be wrong about him waiting outside—his head lifted. His eyes found mine instantly.
Proving me right.
I should say something.
He's waiting for me to say something.
But what?
Come on, just open your mouth and say anything.
No, wait. Not just anything. Say something that actually makes sense.
Alright. Here goes nothing.
I blinked. Swallowed. Ran my tongue over my lips. My heart was hammering against my ribs, so loud I was certain he could hear it.
"Do you want to come in?" Even to my own ears, my voice sounded foreign.
Different.
Lighter, somehow.
Dominic blinked, as if the question had caught him off guard. And while I completely understood his reaction, my patience was fraying—I needed him to say yes, because I was seconds away from falling apart.
Then he sighed. A long, weary exhale, tinged with something that made my chest tighten. Rising to his feet, he immediately towered over me, forcing me to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.
"I—"
"Shhh." I silenced him with a soft hush. "Let's get inside first."
But the moment we stepped into the living room, the tension thickened. It seeped into the air, curling around my throat like an invisible noose. My breathing grew shallow.
Or was it just him?
My eyes flickered over the room—every inch, every shadow, every unremarkable detail I’d seen a thousand times before. Anything to avoid looking directly at him.
"Please, look at me."
That voice.
That voice.
A plea. Fragile, heartbreakingly raw.
My gaze snapped to his like I had no control over my own body. "D-do—" I inhaled sharply. "Do you want a glass of water?"
So what if it was an excuse?
Who cared if I just needed a moment away from the sheer weight of his presence?
"No."
There goes my—
"But you can have some," he added. "I’ll wait."
"Never mind. I don’t want it." My voice was clipped. "You can sit."
He did. And I lowered myself onto the couch opposite him, deliberately keeping the space between us.
"I don’t know where to start." His voice wavered. Every breath he took was uneven, unsteady. "Or how." He exhaled, jagged and raw. "I know 'I’m sorry' won’t be enough. But I swear, I am."
"Thank God you realise that. 'Sorry' won’t cut it, Dominic. This is a big deal. You hid an entire person from me—someone you love, someone you value. And you just… didn’t tell me."
"That’s why I did it."
What?
Dominic dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers gripping the strands for a moment before letting them fall back into their usual careless disarray.
"I—" A pause. A deep, trembling inhale. "I was scaréd."
What?
"And selfish. But mostly scaréd." His voice had an edge of desperation now, something frayed at the seams. "I always knew where we would end up. And knowing didn’t make it húrt any less. It still doesn’t. I didn’t want that for Aurora."
"I don’t understand."
"I didn’t want you two to be friends. I didn’t want both of you to get attached—because I knew where it would lead. And I didn’t want her to be collateral damà ge when it all came crashing down. It might not make sense to you, but it did to me." Another pause. "I thought it was the right thing to do."
"And was it?"
"It doesn’t feel like it."
"That’s because you’ve got a bloódy knack for making the worst possible choices."
"I do."
"You húrt me, Dominic." My voice was soft, but the words were heavy.
"I’m sorry."
"You didn’t trust me."
"I’m sorry."
"That’s what húrts the most. That you didn’t trust me."
"I did."
I shook my head. "I knew everything about you, Dominic. Everything. Except that you had a sister."
His brows knitted together. "What?"
"I cried so much, I nearly ran out of tears. I kept wondering what I’d done to deserve that kind of betrà yal." My legs carried me up before I even realised I was standing. My arms folded tight against my chest. "I thought maybe something was wrong with me. But then, piece by piece, I put the puzzle together."
Confusion flickered in his eyes, stark and demanding.
"That day. When you were furious and sent me out of your office at the Base…" His jaw tensed, like he remembered. "I overheard you talking to Dex. About Kyle Walker—my dad. I didn’t know what to think at the time. I needed proof before confronting you."
His gaze tracked my every move, unblinking.
"I found it. A file on your computer. Everything there was to know about my family." My voice wavered, but I pressed on. "That’s when I decided to wait. To let you be the one to tell me. To trust you. But then you said you were going back to Russia. I didn’t understand it then, but after the breakup… nearly two years later, it finally clicked."
The tension in the air thickened. Grew hotter. Heavier.
"Your uncle diéd. And it just so happened to be the same time you went back. Which means you killéd him—for killiñg your parents. And frankly, he deserved it."
Something flickered across Dominic’s lips—a twitch, a barely restrained smirk.
"It was then that I started to question everything. The kisses. The sweet words. The romantic dates—"
"It was real," he interrupted.
"Oh, I know." I stopped pacing, turning to him. "I’m not stupÃd. After a few days of doubting myself, I knew none of it was fake. You wanted it to be, at first. But you couldn’t keep up the act, could you?" My voice was sharp, pointed. "And then, after everything, I saw you with her—Aurora. And I thought, 'Oh. He’s moved on.'"
He tried to say something, but I didn’t let him.
"And as if that wasn’t enough, there was that kiss with Lovelyn that I couldn't get out of my head." I spat her name like it burned my tongue.
"It wasn’t—" He stood now, slow and careful. "It was an act. To push you away."
"I know. I knew that. But it didn’t stop it from hurtiñg." My voice cracked slightly, but I refused to let it waver. "And then I come back, only to see you with her. Close. Comfortable. Like you’d known her forever."
"That’s because I have," he murmured. "And I’m sorry if that húrt you. I was stúpid."
"You are." I agreed, folding my arms.
"Unquestionably so."
"Without a doubt."
Silence.
Then, quieter, softer—"So… can you forgive the stupÃd idiót standing before you? Who, by the way, never moved on. Because that would be impossible."
I let out a slow breath. Studied him.
His eyes burned into mine—guilt-ridden, exhausted, waiting for an answer.
God help me.
I think I might.
TBC
Next episode please 🥺
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