Page 54 of Deviant Obsession

But not tonight. Tonight is different.

Her coffee table is covered in textbooks and notebooks, all arranged in neat rows. Post-it notes stick out from the pages in a rainbow of bright colors. I shift some papers aside with more care than I’ve ever shown my own study materials, so she can set down our glasses.

She settles beside me on the worn couch, close enough to drive me mad but not quite touching. The space between us screams of her hesitation, frustrating me to no end. But I get it, she’s waiting for the Dean she knows to appear. Usually, I'd already have her pinned beneath me by now, drinking in her gasps instead of wine. The restraint feels alien, but somehow right.

"So," she says, taking a small sip. "Not that I'm complaining, but what brings you here instead of the club? I thought there was some big Shibari demonstration tonight?"

I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the legs run down the sides just to avoid her knowing gaze. "There was—well,is.I left early."

"Why?"

Because being there without you felt wrong. Because Jade's proposition made my skin crawl. Because every rope I touched made me think of marking your perfect skin.

"I was, uh…not in the mood. Tell me about your family," I say abruptly, determined to change the subject so that I don’t have to explain myself. "You never talk about them."

Rhea’s entire body tenses slightly, delicate fingers tightening around the stem of her wine glass. "Not much to tell."

"Bullshit." I turn to face her fully. "You're from Nebraska, right? That's a hell of a move to make for some smalltown university. Why the big change?"

Pain flashes across her soft features before she can hide it. "I, um… I wasn’t sure I could afford college, but then I got a scholarship to Milton Santee. And they... My parents didn’t want me to come. They haven’t spoken to me since I left home for freshman year."

"Fuck. For three years? Why the hell not?"

She takes a longer drink of wine, staring into space for a moment like she’s searching for the right answer. "My father's a preacher. Very fundamentalist. He had specific ideas about what his daughter should be. Moving across the country to study psychology wasn't part of that plan."

"What was his plan?"

"Marriage. Children. Church every Sunday." Her scoffed laugh holds no humor. "A perfect, quiet, obedient daughter who never questioned his authority or embarrassed him in front of his congregation."

The wine turns bitter on my tongue. "And when you told him you wanted something else?"

"Then I was ungrateful. Rebellious. A disappointment to God and my family." Her lower lip trembles slightly. "He had a way of making everything my fault. Like I was born broken. Not the angel he envisioned for himself."

My free hand clenches into a fist at the thought of anyone treating her that way, making her feel small. "He sounds like a real piece of shit."

"He thought he was doing what was best for me." But her eyes are wet when she finally looks up at me. "Sometimes I still hear his voice in my head, telling me I'll never be good enough. That I’m going to Hell for daring to question anything."

"Hey." I set down my glass and turn to look her dead in the eyes. "Your dad's an asshole. And trust me, I know something about asshole parents." The sad attempt at a silver lining slips out before I can stop it. "At least he didn't hit you like mine did."

Her sharp intake of breath cuts through the room and I cringe, already regretting bringing that particular truth to light. Her hand finds my thigh, warm and steadying. "Dean…"

"It was a long time ago." I try to shrug it off. “Ethan and I were only four when they put him in jail. We’ve, uh, had time to recover, I guess.”

"That doesn't make it okay." Her fingers squeeze gently, and I wish to myself that she never lets go. The raw concern in her eyes is almost too much to bear. No girl has ever looked at me quite like this—like they see past all my arrogant defenses to the damaged kid beneath and want to stay anyway.

It's terrifying. It's intoxicating. It's everything I've spent my life running from.

And somehow, sitting here with her gentle hand on my leg and understanding in her eyes, I can't remember why I was running in the first place.

Our half-empty wine glasses sit forgotten on the coffee table as the night deepens around us. Rhea's head rests against theback of the couch, her body angled toward mine like a flower seeking sun. The soft candlelight catches the gold in her hair, and I have to fight the urge to tuck a curl behind her ear.

"Is that why Ethan is so closed off?" she asks softly. "He acts so calm all the time, but sometimes I see this...tension."

I stare into a flickering flame, gathering thoughts I rarely voice. "Yeah, he’s got his damage. We both do. But we have each other. When our mom bailed and left us with our stepdad...at least we had each other."

"Until he left? He told me he pursued boxing for a while, before he came back to help at the club, no?"

"Yeah." The old hurt surfaces, duller now but still very real. "That was... Fuck, that was hard. I mean, I got it. He needed to chase his dreams, find himself or whatever. But suddenly the one person I felt I could always count on was gone."

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