Page 80 of Endless Obsession

He grins at me, a promise in that smile and his dark blue eyes, and as I watch him go, I know I can’t keep pretending that this isn’t a real relationship much longer. Ivan is just waiting on me. I know that much—and all I have to do is let go of my other fantasies. Of the dark, hidden place where I can talk about all the things I think I want but that I’m afraid to ask for, with the man who calls himself Venom, who tells me all the things he wants to do to me in return.

If I want Ivan, I have to give that up. But after what just happened between us, I don’t think it will be that hard, after all. I think of the way he touched me, the things he did to me, and I have a sudden, sharp certainty that if I told him all of those fantasies, he wouldn’t look at me differently. He wouldn’t leave me because of it, or stop wanting me.

He’d have some of his own.

25

IVAN

Leaving Charlotte when she asks me to stay feels nearly impossible. But the danger of Lev following me to her apartment is too great. I don’t doubt that there’s a chance that he already knows where she is, but I don’t want to give him more reason to think that she’s useful to get under my skin. If he knows I’ve advanced to spending the night with her, he’ll be even more eager for a reason to use her against me.

So, instead, I drive myself back home, relishing the lingering feeling of her touch all over me, the scent of her clinging to my skin. The reality of being with her had lived up to the fantasy, and more. And I already want her again.

When I get home, I head straight down into the basement. All I want to think about right now is Charlotte, but I have a job to do, too, and I can’t neglect it. Now more than ever, I need to make sure that I’m not on the wrong side of the feds, as well as my family.

I consider, for a moment, telling Agent Bradley about Charlotte. I wonder if there’s a possibility that he could get her to safety. But she’s not a part of this, not a victim of my father’s yet, and I think of the way he’s looked at me every time we’ve met, as if he wants nothing more than a reason to bring me down too, along with my family.

He wouldn’t help Charlotte. I feel that down in my bones. If he did, there would be a price—likely using her as bait, and just the thought of that makes me feel coldly furious. I’m not going to reveal every secret, every lie to her, ruin any chance of seeing her ever again, all for them to use her as a means to get to my father.

I’d rather fucking die.

The other monitor, the one that I use to track Charlotte’s web and phone activity, pings, and my heart drops abruptly. For a moment, I think she’s logged on to talk to Venom, and the jealousy I feel is a thick, sick rot in my gut.

But it’s not her. It’s her fucking ex, texting her. And as I watch the messages appear on the screen, my blood runs cold, then hot with anger, then cold again.

Nate: I saw you in the car with some fucking guy.

Nate: I knew you were being a fucking slut. Fucking him in our bed.

Nate: You’re going to be fucking homeless, bitch. I’m going to get the condo back.

Nate: Fuck you. You think you’re too good to text me back? You think me sleeping with some other bitch made you miserable? You have no fucking idea how miserable you can be.

My hands clench into fists as I read the messages. I scroll back, feeling a stab of guilt that I missed this, that I hadn’t seen what he’s been saying to her because I’ve been so caught up in the escalating chaos all around me. I’d seen the messages that he’d sent her at the very beginning—a jealous ex being a dick. I thought he’d leave her alone, when it was clear she wasn’t responding. But he’s never given up, and I grind my teeth as I read each and every one, my anger spiking with every new slew of messages.

No one is going to talk to her like that and get away with it.

The helpless feeling that I had when my father beat me, when Lev threatened Charlotte on the yacht, when I talked to Bradley and realized how much more they wanted from me—it all comes rising back up, and I can feel all that anger narrowing in, given direction, given something to focus on.

At first, he was just a pathetic, jealous, bitter ex pissed that he got caught cheating. But now he’s watching her, threatening her. And while I’m well aware of my hypocrisy in being pissed that he’s stalking Charlotte, I don’t fucking care.

She’s mine. I can still smell her on my skin, still taste her on my lips. And by the end of tomorrow night, Nate is never going to fucking bother her again.

—

The following afternoon, I go to my penthouse, parking in the underground garage, and change in the apartment. I dress in all black—black cargos, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, black gloves, black boots. And next to me, as I dress, sitting on the bed, is a black balaclava and the white skeleton mask that I put on for Charlotte as Venom.

I’ve been texting her all day. Lighthearted texts, back and forth, neither of us willing to come out and say how much last night meant to either of us. Not over such an impersonal medium. But the next time I see her?—

I’m not sure I want to tell her even then. I want to show her, with my hands and mouth and my body, show her how much she means to me. How much I want her. How much just one night with her has made me certain that I have to find some way to keep her.

Keep her safe. Keep her mine.

That obsessive thought buzzes in my head as I grab my keys, the balaclava, and the mask, stalking downstairs to my car. I drive across the city, just out to the suburbs, to Nate’s brother’s house.

The lights are on inside. I park in an alleyway, pocketing my keys and pulling the balaclava over my head, securing the mask. Walking to the line of trees just across the road, I find a vantage point that lets me see into the house, through the large picture windows. I watch patiently as the time ticks past, until the two other adults in the house—a man that I assume is Nate’s brother and a woman who must be his wife, based on the quick research I did—get up and walk down a hallway. A light flicks on in a room towards the back of the house, stays on for about thirty minutes, and then turns off. Nate is still in an armchair in the living room, playing what looks like a shooter video game, and I push myself away from the tree that I’m leaning against, prowling slowly toward the house.

It’s laughably easy to get in. The garage is detached, which means there’s a back door with nothing blocking it. Last night, I checked for any records of a security system on the house, and found none. I pick the lock in a matter of seconds; there are no alarms, nothing to let the residents know I’m here. An astonishing amount of confidence that they’re safe.

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