Page 84 of Deviant Obsession

“I didn’t see it until she was already running from us,” Ethan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The resignation in that confession—the guilt—is enough to convince me that perhaps this mess wasn’t all fueled by selfishness alone.

"Because you're both too inexperienced to recognize the signs," I offer, choosing my next words carefully. The last thing I want is for this to turn into a lecture that sets them both back on the defensive. "Domination isn't just about physical control. It's about understanding your submissive's psychological needs, their vulnerabilities. That takes time, focus."

"And you understand hers better than we do?" There's less challenge in Ethan's questions now, more genuine inquiry.

"I understand the impact of her religious trauma, of conditional love. I understand how desperately she craves structure while simultaneously fearing it. Whatever knots she tied herself in trying to please you two, she was desperate to feel free of that pressure. That’s what I saw in her when she came to my office—she was drowning, and she needed a life raft."

"So, what do you suggest we do? If we haven’t already lost her for good…"

"I could help. Not just Rhea. The two of you as well." I gesture to Dean's bloody knuckles. "Starting with learning to control your emotions instead of letting them control you."

"Help how?" Dean scoffs, none of his twin’s acceptance relaxing his own aggressive stance. "By supervising our scenes? Playing mentor while we share your student? This whole discussion is a joke. Everything would have been fine if it had just been Rhea and me from the start."

“It’s a little late for that.” Ethan rolls his eyes. I can’t imagine how many times they’ve had this argument, but clearly Dean thinks he has some sort of prior claim. I’ll have to get to the bottom of that in time.

“Look.” I hold up a hand before Dean can throw back a retort that drags them both into childish bickering. “All I’m saying is that I could maybe bring some experience to a dynamic that's spinning out of control. Look at yourselves. Look at what this is already doing to you. What it’s done to Rhea."

“We might have already lost her for good, Dean,” Ethan sighs. “But…ifshe comes back, I know I’d do anything to make sure she never runs again.”

“I don’t need his interference. And I never needed yours either.” Dean is practically spitting now, furious to find himself suddenly outnumbered. "What's best for Rhea is keeping her away from both of you. Everything will be fine once she realizes she misses me too much to stay away. And I’ll be waiting."

The declaration carries a cold finality as he stalks toward the door.

"Who Rhea chooses to come back to—if she chooses to come back—is not your decision to make." My quiet reminder stops him in his tracks. "The question then is whether you'll be part of the solution or continue being part of the problem."

Dean's shoulders stiffen, but he doesn't turn around. The door slams behind him with enough force to rattle the windows, leaving Ethan and myself to contemplate the wreckage left behind…

And the mess that lies ahead if we can’t save Dean from himself.

Chapter 29

Dean

My boots crunchon gravel as I storm down Dad's driveway, hands shaking so hard I nearly drop the pack of cigarettes I fish from my jacket. The lighter slips in my blood-slicked grip twice before I manage to spark a flame. That first drag does nothing to calm my raging temper.

"Fuck!" The curse tears from my throat, echoing through the pristine hedges that line this fancy neighborhood. Dad's self-righteous lecture chases me down the winding street, each word a fresh knife between my ribs. Structure. Boundaries. Selfish exploitation. Like he has any right to judge after what he did.

Rhea's pale face flashes through my mind—that moment of pure terror when she realized the truth was coming out. The way she backed away from me like there was nothing left to salvage. The memory makes me want to put my other fist through another wall.

I flex my damaged hand, dried blood cracking across my knuckles. The sting barely registers through the thundering in my skull. All I can see imprinted on the inside of my eyelids is her running from me. Fromus. From everything we built together.

The cigarette burns down too quickly. I light another before the first is fully crushed beneath my heel, needing something to do with my hands. Something besides imagining them wrapped around my stepdad's throat. Or worse, remembering how they felt tangled in Rhea's hair the first time she knelt for me. While she submitted so perfectly. Before everything got fucked up.

My feet carry me forward while my mind spirals backward, replaying every moment I should have kept her for myself. Every time I beat back that possessive voice screamingmine, mine, mine. It’s the voice that's screaming even louder now that I know someone else touched her.

Not someone. My own fucking dad.

I spit on the sidewalk and take another deep drag, wondering if I should seek out something stronger to pull me into oblivion.

The familiar shapes of Greek Row's houses materialize through my haze of smoke and fury. I freeze at the bottom of the frat house steps, suddenly feeling like an imposter in a place that used to be home. When was the last time I even thought about coming here? About anything besides Rhea?

The cigarette burns my fingers, forgotten as I stare up at the house that represents everything I used to be. Everything I thought I wanted before Rhea changed me into someone I barely recognize. Someone who actually gives a fuck about more than just getting off and getting out.

I haven't set foot in there since she first walked into the club. Haven't wanted to. I haven't needed to, when every spare moment was spent learning new ways to make her moan, new ways to push her limits, and new ways to earn that look of absolute devotion in her eyes.

That look I'll probably never see again.

Voices drift down from the porch—my brothers killing time after classes, living the simple life I left behind without even meaning to. They sound like strangers now. Or maybe I'm thestranger, standing here with bloody knuckles and a broken heart I never thought I'd have to worry about.

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