Page 80 of Obsession

He let out a sigh, this one decidedly less content, but he obeyed. I immediately swirled to lay into him, but the sadness in his eyes took me aback and I lost my nerve.

“I like feeling close to you,” he said quietly, and with feeling.

My first instinct was to think that he was messing with me, but did he even know how to be conniving? Could such hurt and longing be faked by the former apocalypse-bringer, now turned moron?

“Okay,” I murmured, settling back into his side.

At the memory, my hands fist at my sides. Though Aris is focused on the crime thriller we’re rewatching, he notices the tension; he notices everything I do.

“What is it, Mary?”

“What happened this morning, it can’t happen again,” I say.

He is silent for a few moments, the only sound in the room being the gunfire from the screen—the detective is confronting the serial killer who’s been terrorizing the women of the tri-state area, and he went into the killer’s lair without backup.

Wordlessly, Aris raises the remote to switch the TV off, then turns to me with fire in his eyes.

“This morning,” he says carefully. “And what happened this morning?”

My eyes narrow. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“You mean when I touched you. When I was touching you. That isn’t allowed? Is that a new rule?”

The sudden vehemence in his voice surprises me. This new Aris has been largely complacent. He questions me, but not unreasonably and never with anger. But this…

“Yes,” I manage. “It isn’t allowed.”

“Why?” he asks, leaning toward me. He catches himself on the couch, one hand holding the rest of his powerful body back, keeping us from touching.

“Because it’s wrong.”

“Wrong how? Wrong why?” he demands. My mouth opens, and Aris lets out a noise similar to a growl. “Give me an actual answer.”

No words come as my mind works overtime. What could I say, other than the truth: the history between us is too dark and disturbed, that he is dark and disturbed. Twisted and evil. That I cannot forgive him. That I want him to touch me, but I know that he wants it, too, and I refuse to give him any sort of pleasure. That I am punishing him for hurting me—for hurting everyone.

I can’t tell him any of that. What if it triggers something in him?

So, what else is there? I could mention his missing memories. And it’s true, that’s a consideration—being with him now, diminished as he is, would be taking advantage of him. He doesn’t understand consent or wanting—by God, every other day I’m comparing him to a newborn duck!

What’s more, I’m the one who took his memories away. He doesn’t even know that he’s clinging to his abuser.

Aris stares at me, patient and furious about being patient, chest rising and falling heavily. He doesn’t need to breathe, but he’s picked up this expression from me.

“You’re sick,” I decide, which is apparently the wrong answer—though I doubt he would’ve been satisfied with anything.

His blazing eyes turn to an inferno, and he leans closer—dangerously close, until my skin prickles and I yearn to pull him taut against me. “I don’t feel sick,” he says in a gravelly voice.

He doesn't sound sick, and he certainly does not look it; the effort it takes to keep him from springing on me reveals thick muscle and a powerful form. His eyes almost glow with vigor.

I subtly shift back, though there isn’t much room left, and he watches with a hawk-like intensity—half-calculating, half-rabid—still intelligent, still aware, but I’ve no clue what he’ll do next.

This is the Aris I know. He is still Aris.

“Well, you are sick,” I say, hating the uncertainty in my tone. I can’t show weakness—not around him, but I can’t stop my heart from racing at how abruptly he’s become unhinged. “You don’t… remember yourself.”

Aris inches toward me, until I’m pressed against the back of the couch and there’s nowhere to move. He moves to box me in, his flexed biceps demonstrating his restraint—notably, how little of it remains—and he leans closer, until his breath can be felt against my cheek.

“Why does it matter?” His black eyes dip to my throat as it bobs from a nervous swallow, then return to stare into my soul. “Tell me why.”

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