Page 9 of Sinful Obsession

I snort. “Yeah, Michael fucking flinched when he saw our bond.”

Michael?The question comes out as a terrifying growl but my body doesn’t get the memo, a tendril of pleasure making its waydown between my thighs.Don’t worry about them. You’re here for a reason. This place is more than it seems and I’ll be with you every step of the way.

For the first time in a while, I’m not sure if I believe Asmodeus’ words. I’m sure I’ll come out just fine on the other side, having to pretend that he doesn’t exist and that I’m cured of all demonic activity. However, I don’t believe there’s a purpose here. Just another one of the million things my mother does to assert her control.

A faint knock on the door disturbs the darkness, Asmodeus’ presence fading away. I sit up, one of the orderlies stepping inside with a tight-lipped smile, devoid of any emotion. I scoot as close to the corner of my bed as possible and pull my knees up to my chest. She probably sees a woman terrified of her new room. In reality, the closer that orderly steps, the more disgusted I become. Asmodeus said it’s because they’re trying to rip me from him but I think it’s more than that.

I just don’t know what.

“I’m Rosalie,” she offers, her face brightening slightly. “Lunch is usually in the common area but since you’re new, you’ll be eating in here today. Just a precaution.”

A precaution? I would understand if I was violent or if my supposed hallucinations were so erratic that I couldn’t tell fact from fiction. “I don’t need to be isolated and I don’t need to be coddled. My mother threw me in here and I’m just looking forward to leaving.”

Rosalie’s smile doesn’t budge but I can see in her eyes that my words affect her. “Vienna, there are protocols to follow to ensure that everyone gets the most out of Briarwood Institute. It has nothing to do with coddling and everything to do with making sure we are giving you what you need.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter as she reaches just outside of the room and produces a small metal tray. It rests on a small cart asshe pushes it toward the edge of the bed, the food bland and colorless. Hell, I might actually take my mother’s bean roasts or whatever that is. Rosalie gives me a short nod before leaving and shutting the door behind her.

I’m pretty sure this isolation tactic is one of many ways they break patients before building them back up. The problem is that there’s some connection to the church so there will be prayer and church services and moments where someone will try to rebuke me. All things that happened growing up and never worked. Because I’m not someone that needs to be fixed and Asmodeus is very, very real.

Or at least his dick is because I don’t have any toys the size of him or ones that can do what his does.

No, love. They don’t make toys like mine.

“Asmodeus, did you just make a fucking joke?” He doesn’t answer as I chuckle, crawling toward the food to inspect what’s on there. The only safe thing is the juice box, everything else a mess of gray except for the corn that looks just as questionable. “Definitely not eating that.”

You are stronger than your ability to withstand a few meals. If they think that’s all it takes to break you, then they’ll be in for a shock. They have no idea what you’re capable of.

The familiar warmth wraps around me as always but now I’m curious what he means. What I’m capable of? He sounds like there’s something more to my existence than just… Vienna Haddox. I almost ask Asmodeus if I’m meant for something greater but maybe I don’t want to know.

Because for the second time in as many minutes, I wonder if there’s some truth Asmodeus isn’t telling me. Then I remember that I’m in love with Satan’s son and have found myself locked up in a mental institution.

Okay, so maybe I don’t make thebestchoices.

7 – Ewan

The dimly lit lobby of Briarwood Institute tries to swallow me as I rest my elbows on my knees, fingers tracing idle patterns along the edge of the worn armrest. The silence in this place is heavy, almost as if it’s trying to suffocate every sound but that’s how it’s always been here over the last several years since I was thrown into this prison. What should have been a month or maybe two turned into a few months and then years with no bright light at the end of the tunnel.

A heavy sigh falls from my lips as I stare out at nothing in particular. This lobby has seen countless people shuffled through its doors, individuals hopeful that they’ll find the help they need. Orderlies and doctors push them inside, a sly smirk hiding beneath the gentle smiles as if this is all done for our own good. Those who have been here a while know better. This has nothing to do with healing and everything to do with control.

However, today’s arrival is… different.

Kaua sits beside me, his stoic presence filling the large frame of the lounge beside me. His hands are folded across his stomach, his eyes half-closed as if he’s drifting between awareness and his own thoughts. Despite the silence, there’s an energy simmering just beneath the surface, ready to snap. I’ve learned to recognize it over the years, the way it pulses under his skin. He doesn’t need to say much for me to understand him. War doesn’t talk; War waits.

And then it strikes.

I, on the other hand, fuel my curiosity. It gnaws at me like an itch I can’t scratch, something I just have to pick at until the seams unravel. For years now, the doctors have tried to destroy that itch, that restless need to understand how the world works. They want me to fit into the quiet, perfect mold of Ewan Thatcher, the accountant. A man with a family and happy memories to return to. They insist on things I can’t remember and don’t care about, visitors popping up from time to time begging for me to acknowledge them.

Maybe at some point, I was that person but they are desperately trying to pull me away from the truth.

They call meEwan. But I know that I amDeath.

An eerie shift in temperature follows the silent declaration, a cackle in the back of my mind as a passing orderly pales and then shifts through the lobby faster. They tell me I’m not Death and then treat me as a darkness to be avoided but they are right to be afraid. I don’t remember Ewan Thatcher and the life he lived. I don’t remember the simplicities of Earth or the taste of wealth that the Thatcher family boasts. However, I’m more than comfortable with the cold, creeping sensation that lies deep within me. The essence of death running through my veins.

Because I’m notjustDeath, but a Horseman—the true Death incarnate. I am merely biding my time in this prison until we are called upon to fulfill our purpose. I chance another glance atKaua, the man’s eyes now fully closed, his chest rising and falling with every full breath that passes through his lips. He’s a work of art, one of many curiosities I have found myself bound to.

He wears his hair long around his shoulders, much longer than mine, a midnight brown with bits of sunkissed yellow mixed in. The color brings out the dark bronze of his skin, the very same color of his eyes that sparkle whenever he finds a new disastrous idea to attend to. My tongue darts out to lick my lips as I undress him with my eyes, wondering when the next time I’ll find myself under him and at his mercy. Only for Kaua and Conquest—Vito—do I give in.

Only them.

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