Page 65 of Obsession

Tell me about Sem, I want to ask. Tell me about Jaegen and Babylon and Egypt. Tell me why it matters that I blame Jaegen instead of you. Tell me what happens once the world ends.

Who are you? What do you want from me?

Finally, Aris says, “Will you continue touching me, the way that you were before?”

A lazy, half-smile slides onto my face as I resume stroking his hair. He watches me for a moment, something unfamiliar on his face, before his eyes shut. I hadn’t noticed how tense he was, how tense he always is, until his shoulders lower.

A slow breath escapes his lips, washing over my face, and, as his scent washes over me, I’m hit with the sudden urge to close the distance between us and kiss him. With the thought, is a strike of melancholy and rage. I’m supposed to want to kiss him so I can ruin him, not because I want to kiss him.

He will not change, I remind myself. He will not stop, I tell myself.

He is evil.

Remember those people that he killed today. Remember that they are people.

Wordlessly, I reach toward him, and his eyes shoot open. There is a brief moment of doubt, where I consider that he might push me away, that he might embarrass me by not wanting me, but I refuse to let fear stop me.

When we kiss, it’s every good kiss I had with Henry. Electric and pulsing, and I know now how to differentiate when it was Aris who was touching me. When it felt good, when it felt right, that was Aris. The plain, awkward movements were Henry’s own.

I don’t think about it enough to feel sad. All I think now is that I want more of him. Of Aris.

I curl my hands in his thick hair and pull myself onto him as my lips part and the kiss deepens. His arms encircle my waist, fingers sprawling and pressing tight on my skin; there will be bruises tomorrow. I feel pain, but it’s all pleasure. I never noticed before how closely the two coincide.

He rolls on top to pin me below, breaking our long kiss. While I gulp for air, clutching handfuls of sheets, his mouth goes to my neck, where he trails nips along the side, smiling as I arch into the bites. Then, he returns to my lips, deciding I’ve had enough time to breathe.

Kissing him is fierce, a dance that he leads. When I try to introduce new steps, he takes me back to the beginning, forceful and insistent, and I learn quickly that I will get only what he offers.

Aris relents only when he feels my chest tense as I’m brought to the edge of suffocation, and he allows me enough air to keep me an active participant before descending again. My ribs burn and my head is buzzing, able only to meet his movements, utterly beyond trying to anticipate.

He’s ravenous. His hand on my waist shakes, or it could be me shaking; we are both so eager. Like this, there is no hierarchy.

With a jerk of his wrist, he rips my shirt off of me, throwing the fabric to the ground. I don’t know what that means, what we’re going to do next.

Aris pulls back to watch me pant. There is fierce, unrestrained lust in his eyes—the cold hunger of an animal that knows what it wants and exactly how to get it.

He raises his hands from my stomach; one pins my wrists above my head effortlessly, and the other starts to remove more of my shirt, the tips of his fingers teasing my collarbone.

I should feel trapped, terrified, but it’s like someone else has taken hold of me. All of my anxiety and anger is gone, and there is only this moment. His strength is comforting, not deadly; it is a protective hold.

“He doesn't deserve you,” he says, growling the moment he finishes speaking. The combination of desire and fury in his voice is striking, the duality doing something to my insides, and it takes a moment to realize what he just said.

Who doesn’t deserve me, Henry?

I can hardly remember his name; at this moment, he matters so little. And maybe he never mattered.

Like he hears my thoughts, Aris’ lips rise, and his grip tightens on my wrists. His other hand peels more fabric aside, lifting my shoulder to explore my back, and I’m too distracted to think of the marks burned into my skin.

That is, until Aris touches one.

We both feel it: the surge of energy rushing to meet his fingers. As one, we go still, and he looks at me, desire amputated.

Tonight is a night of firsts, of many new emotions from Aris. I have never seen this expression on him before. There is pain etched into his features, like I slapped him and it actually hurt, his lips twisted in a gape.

I look back with equal parts trepidation and terror. He didn’t touch the mark that shields my thoughts; he touched the one meant to steal his memory. He felt the magic. He knows now. He must know.

Very, very slowly, he releases my wrists and leans back, setting his weight on his knees. Straddling me. I cannot escape. I could move slightly—yet, I don’t dare.

He does not look away from me with that terrible look on his face.

---