Page 42 of Imprisoned Obsession

The queries about how Elio fits into this and what he had done to them leave my mind. I don’t care about the questionable things he did; I’m just happy to see these two people frazzled and at our mercy.

“Elio?” I mutter in confusion.

What’s going on? Why’re we here? Is this his surprise?

I don’t understand. What’s his end-game? To tie them up and leave them to be found by a concerned neighbor?

“Cozen is a natural accelerant,” Elio enlightens me while rubbing his thumb on the soft dress covering my hip.

“It’s relatively unpleasant to smell,” he says with a sigh. “It’s fickle if not properly handled. However, the benefits outweigh the negative aspects of it.”

“’ Accelerant’?” I echo. “For what?”

He reaches into his pocket and shows me the lighter in his hand. It’s engraved with a decorative design, the indented lines a darker shade than the metal.

The message is clear.

Elio presses the lighter into my palm and closes my fingers around it. The weight of it is like a boulder, and it hurts to keep still when he pulls his hand away.

I can't hold this. I need support from him.

“Elio,” I whisper tentatively.

He smiles encouragingly, and he purposely refuses to entertain the silly fear in me. Fire is not a silly fear, even if it’s something small like a lighter.

He pets my waist like he’s petting a cat, an audible purr escaping my throat.

“The accelerant is special, different from the others. It adheres to skin and nothing else.”

An extraordinarily loud round of fireworks roars outside. It drowns out the woman’s voice while Elio’s chest vibrates with a mean laugh.

“Cozen is a paragon for an experienced arsonist.”

The edges bite into my skin as I clench the lighter. I look over to the teenagers, shaking and terrified at the news of their dilemma. I want to help them; they’ve been through enough pain at the hands of those animals.

“I don’t—” I pause and sink my teeth into my tongue. “What… why did you give me this?”

Elio turns his head and buries his nose into my styled hair. He growls and hums resoundingly as it ricochets in his thick chest.

I did my hair to match the dress for him, but he’s messing it up as little strands of hair tickle my skin.

“I want you to return the favor for what they did to me,” he murmurs vindictively into my ear.

The scars.

I clutch the lighter to my chest and lean towards him with a shudder. The only source of light is a lamp off to the side, and it does no justice to the wrath in his luminous eyes.

“Are you hurting?” I ask. “Your back. Does it hurt?”

“It does,” he says icily. “Help me.”

Electric chills send a burst of malevolence down my spine. He’s not vulnerable, and he doesn’t need help.

He needs me to willingly step away from the fear they created in my bones and walk towards sinister immorality.

“An eye for an eye” is bad. It’s frowned upon. It’s a concept that brings joy and visceral satisfaction.

It’s an untrustworthy balance between morality and immorality.

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