Page 34 of Under Fyre

“Did he say anything to you?”

Charlotte gives me a pointed look. “What could we possibly have to discuss?”

I don’t like it. Not one fucking bit. I scan our surroundings as we head back toward my house. Had I honestly misinterpreted Arrow’s bark? She’d sounded exactly like she had that night—

Charlotte’s quiet voice cuts through my thoughts. “Why didn’t the other therapists try exposure therapy?”

“It’s a radical approach, especially considering the source of your trauma. You can’t very well expect Doctor Sharon Pittman to go and lock you in a basement for a week, can you?”

She huddles against me as a gust of wind toys with our clothes. “Why you, then? Why me?”

Because I’ve been obsessed since the moment I first laid eyes on you.

“You intrigue me.”

“That’s it?” I would have expected her words to be bitter, but they’re matter-of-fact. “I’m just some kind ofhobbyfor you?”

“Yes.”

She lets out an amused huff.

It’s too soon for the truth. There’s only so much the human mind can absorb at a time, and she’s still brimming over from yesterday.

She can’t know yet how deep my obsession runs. How focal she is to my plans. Or just how desperate I am to have this all come together.

I need a win.

Ideservea win.

And it starts, andends, with Charlotte.

I slip an arm around her waist and urge her to move faster.

“You’re not wearing shoes,” she notes quietly.

“You’re not wearing clothes.”

“Touché.”

* * *

I smoothaway a lock of Charlotte’s hair, causing her to shift in her sleep. She sighs and turns her back on me, burrowing deeper into the sheets. I still need to address why it felt like Armageddon when I realized she was gone. But more importantly…why did she stay?

It shouldn’t matter to me, but it does.

I want her towantme.

I want her to feel like I do—incapable of living without her.

But I’m fooling myself if I think feelings like that will spring up overnight. Charlotte isn’t compulsive like I am. She’s notobsessedlike I am.

Such a pity.

Compulsion is an excellent motivator.

I lock her bedroom door and grab a beer out of the fridge.

Memories are tricky beasts…especially the darker ones. The unwanted ones. When they feel neglected they’ll often arrive masquerading as something happy and bright.

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