Page 32 of Driving My Obsession

Lights glimmer in the distance, filtering through the leaves and dispelling the darkness. We break through the tree line, and he slows to a stop. As he squats again, I ease off his back and steady myself by gripping his shoulders. I go to take a step forward, but pain rockets up my leg and I let out a yelp. Cue an Ambrose eye roll. I want to scream into his face and remind him once more that this is all his fault, but I don’t have the chance because I’m swept into his arms again as he carries me toward the house. He brings me in through the back door and sets me on the couch. I bat his hands away the moment my back hits the thick cushion, but he grips my wrists and pins my arms above my head. Leaning down, he places his face against my neck.

And he inhales.

“What are you doing?” I ask, panic climbing up my throat on a wave of bile.

He stops. “The same thing you did to me.” His warm breath glides over my skin and brings goosebumps to the surface.

Now I’m just mortified because he knew I was sniffing him the entire time I rode him like a pack mule. I can’t get a word out, even if I wanted to. I’m ashamed because of this undeniable attraction I feel for the man who has been tormenting me for weeks. The man who drugged me and took what he wanted. What I would have willingly given him had he asked.

None of it makes sense! He’s not unattractive. He’s scarred, sure, but there’s an undeniable handsomeness beneath those scars. Why the fuck would he need to stalk and assault me?

He releases my hands and goes to the kitchen. He rifles through the cabinets and drawers, finds what he’s looking for, and begins filling whatever it is with ice. He wraps it with a dishrag he pulls from a drawer, then brings it to me.

“Put this on your ankle,” he says, wiggling it in front of my face. “It’ll bring the inflammation down.”

I take the baggie of ice from him and apply it to my ankle with a wince. I almost thank him, but then I remind myself that this is. His. Fucking. Fault.

He disappears into the pantry and reemerges with an economy-sized jar of peanut butter. As he bends to look for a spoon, his white undershirt rides up his muscular back and reveals even more scars. My breath hitches. His face, head, arms, and back are covered in them, so I can only imagine where else they mark his skin. What the hell happened to him? I know he fights, but those aren’t from fighting. When he turns around, he catches me gawking.

“Want a closer look?” He abandons the peanut butter and spoon on the counter and walks toward me. As he nears the couch, he grips the hem of his t-shirt and lifts it away from him. “Maybe looking isn’t enough for you.” He grabs my hand and runs it along his abs. Along the scars. There are so many.

I don’t try to pull away, and that seems to bother him more than if I struggled to free myself from his skin. If he expects me to be repulsed by these marks, he’s setting himself up for disappointment. Am I intrigued? Absolutely. But I’m not disgusted.

He drops my hand and returns to the kitchen for his peanut butter without another word. It’s almost as if he’s looking for a reason to fly off the handle and attack me, and now he’s annoyed that I didn’t fulfill my side of the bargain. I won’t give him a reason to kill me.

I wrack my brain, trying to figure out why he’s chosen me as his target and why he feels like he has to end my life. If he’s worried I’ll rat him out now that I’ve seen his face, he doesn’t have anything to worry about. No one would believe me. He’s not the only one who views me as a worthless whore. If I say he assaulted me, he’ll just claim it was consensual. That I asked for it. No one believes the woman.

“You don’t have to do any of this, Ambrose. You could leave. I didn’t call the police after what you did to me, and I won’t call them now. Just go. Please.”

He stops the spoon before it reaches his mouth, and he tightens his lips as if he’s considering it. The spoon lowers. “Why didn’t you?”

I can’t answer that. He doesn’t need to know why; he just needs to know I didn’t. I shake my head and focus on the ceiling. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“That’s a complex question with an even more complex answer,” he says, then he finally shoves the spoon into his mouth. He has no intention of elaborating any further.

I turn away from him and lie on my side, exhausted after my late night hike through the woods. The chill from the ice burrows into my bones and creates a new ache, but I leave it there. That pain is more tolerable than the alternative. I begin to doze, but I snap awake when I hear him rinsing the spoon in the sink. Then he comes closer.

“Time for bed,” he says as he scoops me into his arms.

I push against him and try to free myself, but his hold is too strong. “I’m not sleeping in a bed with you.”

A smirk slides across his face as he looks down at me, and a shadow darkens his brown eyes. “Oh, you absolutely are. I won’t risk you slipping out the window again. Only one of us will leave here alive, tragedy, and I’m not ready to drop the curtain just yet.”

The stark realization stares me in the face, and I can’t hide from the truth. I’m going to die. I’m going to be murdered because I got into his Jeep. Because I hitchhiked.

As he climbs the stairs with me in his arms, I can only imagine what I’ll have to endure before I draw my last breath. It doesn’t help that he’s so fucking attractive. If my stalker had been someone like Jake, I would only have to endure situational fear and panic. Now I have to deal with confusion on top of that.

He’s a killer, Oaklyn! Think with your head and not your hormones!

“I have to use the bathroom,” I blurt.

He lowers me to my feet at the top of the stairs, and I hobble toward the first door on the right. He stays close behind me. I fear he’ll demand to watch me relieve myself, but he only wants to check the bathroom to ensure I can’t escape. Satisfied with the useless miniature window that only a child could fit through, he leaves and closes the door behind him.

I lower my shorts and sit on the toilet, running through ways to save myself as I piss. There aren’t any weapons in here. There aren’t even any items that could be repurposed into weapons. The most dangerous item is the seashell soap dish, and that won’t do me any good. He looks like he takes harder hits to the head than what I could ever muster. I stupidly left the knife in his room when I panicked and flew out the window. He’s probably hidden it now. Without any options—or brilliant ideas—I grab a washcloth from the shelf above the toilet and clean myself as much as I can. As I rub the dirt from my face and rinse it down the drain, I sense him out there.

Listening.

Waiting.

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