Page 35 of Driving My Obsession

She wiggles free and sends a parting kick into my groin. I drop to the floor. Gripping my stomach in a breathless heap, I’m useless to stop what happens next. I can only watch as she retreats to the door, but I don’t panic. If she runs, I’ll catch her.

But she doesn’t run. She stops at the door and turns to face me, an untamed electricity pinging through her eyes. Her chest heaves with each breath she takes. Her nostrils flare. With a scream, she thrusts her arm in my direction and drags the knife down her forearm. Right up and down the road. She looks down at the wound, a haze of disbelief crossing her face as the blood funnels through the gash and drips onto the floor.

Fuck me.

Air rushes into my lungs, and I’m on my feet. I rip the knife out of her grasp and toss it away as she begins to sway against the wall. I wrap my arms around her and carry her to the bed, setting her on the edge and gripping her shoulders to keep her upright. Warmth slaps against my foot, and I look down. A crimson ribbon slides from her and pools against the hardwood. I have to stop the bleeding.

When I release her shoulders, Oaklyn lies back on the bed, her eyelashes fluttering. I tear the shirt from my body and wind it around the wound until I’ve run out of fabric. It’s not enough. Blood crowds the cotton fibers, turning it a deep shade of vermillion.

“Stupid girl,” I snarl, even as her eyes shudder closed.

Blood coats my fingers, leaving them tacky as it tries to dry. I have to stop the bleeding, but a hospital isn’t an option. I press down on the wound, mentally urging the fucking fountain to shut off before it kills her.

Why?

Why the hell am I doing this?

If she wants to die, I should let her. This ending wouldn’t be as beautiful as the one I planned in my head, but it’s still a tragic way to go out. If I release her arm, she’ll bleed out before long, even if she missed the radial artery. I just need to let go. I loosen my grip, and a trickle of blood snakes down her arm and spreads through the blanket beneath her.

I can’t do it.

My hands seize her arm again, applying more pressure than before. “Oaklyn,” I shout, lifting one hand long enough to smack her sweat-coated cheek.

She doesn’t respond. I want to tell her I’m not ready for her to die. I’m not ready to let her go. Once she’s gone, what do I go back to? She gave me something worthwhile to focus on, even if the focus was only harnessed hatred. Now, that hatred has morphed into something foreign. Something I can’t explain or understand. The scales stand even, with disdain weighing down one side and admiration on the other.

And I do admire her, especially considering what she’s just done. It was something I wanted to do countless times. Hell, I even tried once, but I only ended up adding more scars to my body.

No one was there to beg me to stay, though.

I only survived because I hadn’t driven the blade deep enough. She might have accomplished what I couldn’t, and the thought terrifies me. No one is exempt from the wake of destruction she’s left in the path to her end, and I’ve been caught in the fallout. Even if I can’t explain it, even if I don’t yet understand it, I have to save her.

ChapterTwenty-Two

Oaklyn

Athick fog obscures my eyes, and I don’t recognize the hard feeling beneath me. This isn’t a mattress. It’s wood. My fingers move along the surface, gliding until I reach an edge, and I realize I’m on a table.What the fuck?I bring a hand to my head, then lower it to my aching wrist. I graze taut, sticky skin and a seam in my flesh.

Memories rush back, and the fog over my eyes begins to dissipate. I’m at the cabin. I ran from my stalker. My stalker is Ambrose. He threatened to kill me, and I...

I touch my wrist again, unable to admit what I’ve done.

A bottle of super glue sits on the shelf beside me. I feel my arm again and note the hard line that runs through the wound. He pushes me to this and then saves me? Why? So I can play more of his little game? The cat has stepped on the mouse’s tail and pulled it back toward its teeth.

Footsteps come toward me, and his warm hand grips my wrist. “You’re lucky you had super glue here. Otherwise, I was about to have to stitch you with some needle and thread,” he says, examining his handiwork. “Superglue is a fighter’s best friend.”

“Or you could have just let me die.”

He shakes his head. “You wouldn’t have died. Once the bleeding slowed, I could see that you didn’t go deep enough. You nicked some blood vessels, but you missed the important ones. You’ll be woozy for a while, but you’ll live.”

I sit up and immediately regret that decision when the blood rushes from my head and the haze returns. Blinking back the fog, I steady myself and take a deep breath. “I don’t understand,” I whisper. “You say you want to kill me, but you went out of your way to save me. You should have just let it happen or helped me along.”

“You aren’t ending this on your terms.”

“Let me go or end me, Ambrose.” I turn to face him, but he refuses to look me in the eye.

He pats the wound. “It’s dry. Go shower,” he says, and I realize he already has. Who showers while someone is unconscious on the dining room table? I guess the same person who fucks someone while they’re unconscious.

Fucking Ambrose.

---