Page 99 of Brutal Obsession

He pauses and sets me against the wall outside the hotel. Its sign glows above the door, feet away. “Why not?”

I rub my hand under my nose. “Because inside, everything becomes real. And I just really don’t want to live in the real world for a little while longer.”

He stares at me. He’s a starer. I don’t know if he realizes it, because he doesn’t stare at anyone else. Just me. And it’s kind of creepy, sometimes. But other times, it feels like he’s trying to carve out a spot in my soul for him, and that does seem nice. Like he wants room inside me for him.

What he doesn’t know is that he’s been digging his grave in my chest for weeks, and me in his. We’re going to trade one day. My heart for his. An even exchange.

“Are you going to have your wicked way with me, Mr. Devereux?” I run my finger down his chest.

He steps closer, between my legs.

Boy, does this feel familiar. I’m not mad about it.

No matter how hard I fuck you, I’ll still hate your guts.

I’ve got to wonder if there’s room for hate and love in the same space. In us. I don’t know if I want to consider it. Leaning into the hate seems a lot less scary.

But wouldn’t I still be in the same predicament with or without the accident? With the possibility of stress fractures knocking me out of the game? Indefinitely, maybe.

I’m twenty. How much longer would I be able to sustain this career?

That was always the nightmare floating over my head. That my body would give out well before I was ready to retire. It led me to CPU. It led to the business degree I don’t care about, because a backup plan is better than nothing. Dance classes came first, and fitting my regular college classes around that schedule was always my priority.

Except, now? The only thought rattling through my head is that Ishouldn’thave had a backup plan. I should’ve gritted my teeth and worked through the break, through the pain, and come out stronger on the other side because I had no other options.

Did a backup plan make me weak?

Too many questions and no answers for me.

“Violet,” Greyson says softly. “You’re in no shape for that.”

“I’m as good as I’m going to get.” I let out a harsh laugh. One that scrapes my vocal cords. “Newsflash, Grey. I’m the broken girl.”

He looks down at his hand, then back at me. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

I sneer. I should be happy from the Molly, I should be floating still. I miss that experience. I miss the euphoria of it.

Instead, I’m leaning against a cold brick wall with an even colder man at my front. And I’m burning hot for him.

So instead of answering, I fist the front of his shirt like I’d seen him do to an opponent before he decked them. I don’t go for the hit, though. I yank him down and rise at the same time, slamming my lips to his.

They slide against mine, and I take that as a comfort. I take. It’s what I do.

I take and take and take.

The people in my life who know me best, they know I take and don’t give back. My mother, for instance, always leaving those pieces of herself behind. I collect them because the alternative is worse. I kept them to remind myself of her, because even when we’re standing in front of each other, she’s not there. She lives in baubles and forgotten bits.

My father? I harbor the watercolor memories of him.

Willow? I steal her generosity, I leech her comfort.

Greyson.

I’ll suck the anger clean out of his body, because I think he can live without it—while I need it to keep going.

His lips move against mine, giving me exactly what I need, and I open my mouth. I take his tongue. I palm his dick through his jeans, tug at his waistband to get him closer. Fuck public indecency. I bite his lip, then flick at it with the tip of my tongue. His blood is metallic and hot.

We dig at each other. Teeth and nails and pain, until we’re both breathing hard.

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