Page 99 of The Art of Obsession
I step back, pacing now. “No one should be able to get in here,” I growl. “The system reads my scars. It’s impossible?—”
“Cal,” she interrupts, standing and touching my arm. “You’re scaring me. For real now.”
I stop, my chest heaving. I cup her face, my thumb brushing over her cheek. “Don’t be. Do you think I would ever allow anyone to touch you? You are mine, Everleigh Lennox. Only fucking mine. I’ll find out who did this. No one will ever threaten you here. No one will breathe the same air as you. Not while my heart beats.”
Her eyes search mine, wide and uncertain, but she nods. “Okay.”
I kiss her, fiercely, as if I can protect her with the strength of my embrace. But even as I hold her, my mind is already working, calculating.
Whoever did this made a mistake. And I will find them.
Once I’ve departed,I set to work checking and rechecking all the security feeds. Iinterrogatemembers of my security, ensuring every last one is above reproach.
Since the last exhibit, I’ve gained more VIP clients. Regardless, they have limited access. No access to the speakers. No ability to open the fucking doors. All they are afforded is a one-way view after my personal escort.
Most importantly, they are monitored. I don’t leave them alone with that one-way screen for long. I ensure I perform hourly checks, and the security feed isalwaysbroadcast to my office.
Bloody fucking hell. How could this happen?
I rub a hand down my face as I scrutinize the VIPs through my screen while doing a more in-depth background check.
The portly man of the crime syndicate recently became a VIP despite my Russian Roulette act on his privates. My jaw tightens because Jonathan Rippers doesn’t have the wherewithal, much less the style to do something like this.
Whoever the invader was, he could have simply taken her or…raped her. No, it’s not his end goal.
I turn the brooch over in my hand. The craftsmanship is impeccable, the kind of piece that
whispers wealth and intent. This isn’t a crude gesture; it’s a challenge.
And I know exactly who would dare.
Dorian.
The name curls in my mind like smoke, suffocating and acrid. It fits too perfectly. The style, the arrogance, the audacity to waltz intomydomain and leave a token forher.
But no. It’s impossible.
I shove the thought aside, my teeth grinding. Dorian’s on tour, playing the charming bastard in New York City, parading around as if he owns the world. He’s been there for the pastweek, clear across the country, touring with his act. Every move of his is public, plastered across social media and gossip columns.
And yet, this reeks of him.
If it’s not Dorian, then it’s someone who wants me to think it’s him. Someone who knows enough about us—abouther—to mimic his style.
A low growl escapes my throat. Whoever this is, they’re trying to woo her. Impress her. Seduce her.
My Everleigh.
Fury crashes through me. Some interloper thinks they can charm her with a trinket?
This isn’t about her, not really. It’s about me. About tearing down the walls I’ve built, the control I’ve fought to maintain.
Fine. Let them try.
I slam the brooch down, push away from my desk, and stalk toward the monitors. Every feed, every angle, every shadow—I scour them for anything I might have missed. But there’s nothing.
My fists clench at my sides. I’ll find them. I’ll rip their intestines from their bodies and use them to strangle their dicks until they fall off.
But first, it’s time for the next exhibit.
