Page 30 of Imprisoned Obsession

Fighting him wasn’t an option. It never was, and it never will be.

Last night was a crystal-clear moment for my oxygen-deprived brain. His antagonistic eyes froze the rushing blood in my veins. Nothing about the way he looked at me was human.

Elio was something—dangerous, surreal, and viscerally demonic.

I could have died.

Yes, I realize I could have died.

He wasn’t kind to me; he was giving me a lose-lose choice. He was either going to treat me like a princess and be gentle with me, or he could wrap his hand around my throat again and fuck me ruthlessly hard into the Egyptian silk sheets.

A startled sputter erupts through my gasp. I spin around to face his naked chest; the black patterns swirl endlessly as Elio slides his hand to the back of my neck.

He smiles innocently when he does it, closing the space between us. The vice clamp around my neck sends chills down my spine, his knuckles nudging me softly as I tumble into his hot chest.

“Breakfast is ready,” he says. “Or do you prefer to eat in bed?”

I never understood the appeal of eating on a bed. I don’t do it for the sole reason that food should not be in bedrooms at all, especially not the bed I sleep in. The thought of food falling on my bedcovers and the headache of washing them is enough to deter me no matter how romantic it sounds.

I shake my head and gaze at his disheveled hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen him as anything less than perfect and dashing. He usually wears expensive suits or tight-fitting casual attire, but his hair has never had a single strand out of place.

For a moment, he’s not an unattainable god-like figure. He truly looks human, almost flawed.

He is flawed in a way that enhances his perfection.

Society views a perfect person as a saint who ascends to heaven, rewarded for their good deeds despite not expecting anything in return.

In my biased eyes, Elio represents perfection. He’s so imperfect that the cracks are filled with black sins to create a sense of seamlessness.

He’s a depraved, cold-blooded monstrosity disguising a good heart that just needs love to soften his unyielding tyranny.

Does Elio want my love? I don’t know; I can’t make that assessment because his charismatic façade distracts me from his reprehensible reflection.

He doesn’t let anyone see who he really is or if there is even something in there to hide.

“I want one last touch before we eat,” he says from my temple.

He likes kissing me there. I instinctively shrivel at his crushed velvet voice. My body gets chills running down to my toes; even curling them doesn’t obliterate those lovely tingles.

It’s wrong to feel this way about him, but it’s so right at the same time.

“Come, you must be starving,” he insists as he drags me by the hand.

The smell of sweetened coconut runs soothingly down my throat. He’s an excellent cook, but not overly pretentious with elegant displays or complex flavoring. It’s simple, comforting, and fulfilling.

He says he has lived alone for years, and the idea of having help in the house didn’t appeal to him. Rather than pride making him unable to accept help, I suspect he has been unwilling to let anyone into the sanctity of his home.

His security measures have turned his home into a citadel.

Solitary. He’s lonely. He craves companionship, but his heart won’t allow it. That is why he needs me as a passive participant in his paradoxical scheme.

Where’s his family?

I haven’t seen a single picture anywhere in the ginormous home. The interior is more like an elegant estate than a home he has lived in for years. Everything is neutral-colored with minimalist designs as if it has no personality.

A home that’s been inhabited for years should have a style that matches the homeowner. But Elio’s home is plain, despite being grand.

He’s not committed to this house.

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