Page 36 of Driving My Obsession

“I’m good,” I say. If I’m stinking and covered in blood, maybe he won’t keep having his way with me.

“Now, tragedy,” he says, raising his voice.

My eyes narrow on him. “Or what?”

He fists my hair and draws my lips toward his mouth. “I’ll fuck you right now. I know you’d rather die than have my scarred body all over you again.” He breathes against my lips. “Right?”

Double A right I would, but it has nothing to do with his scars. I won’t explain that to him, though. Let him think whatever he wants. “I’ll shower,” I say, and I hope my decision drives a dagger through his heart.

As I drop my legs from the side of the table, the weight of the world assaults me. A dizzying buzz knocks me off balance, but a strong arm catches me before my ribs collide with the table.

“Slow down,” he says. “You’ve lost a surprising amount of blood. I wasn’t even sure I could get you closed up.”

“My hero,” I say as I push his hand away.

A smirk creeps onto his lips. I grip the table to balance myself, and my skin sticks to my shirt. I look down. Dried blood cakes my clothes and skin. Yeah, I need a fucking shower, not only to clean up but to rid myself of all traces of Ambrose on my body. In my body. A wild shiver runs through me.

I limp to the downstairs bathroom. He knows I have nowhere to go, so he doesn’t follow me. Warm steam rises as I turn on the shower. I undress and step inside, averting my eyes from the rust-colored water circling the drain. A crust clings to the edge of the shampoo bottle from years of sitting on a shelf, and I flick it away so I can squirt some into my hands. I work up a thick lather in my hair, closing my eyes as the sweat eases its grip on my scalp and floats away on the suds. Using a washcloth, I scrub my skin until it’s pink. I don’t use as much effort around my wrist, only pressing hard enough to release the dried blood. A deep ache claws through my arm. Flaming fingers drag glass nails through the muscles. I really did a number on myself.

Stepping out of the shower, I release a deep sigh. It feels so fucking good to be clean. Renewed. More hell awaits me when I leave the bathroom—more Ambrose—but I can’t think about that right now. I wish I was back at the club, bitching about my life. At least I could dance. My ankle sings when I put weight on it, and I’m not sure I’ll ever dance again. In any capacity.

I reach for the towel hanging by the sink, and I’m annoyed to find it wet. We usually bring our own towels when we visit because moths always seem to eat up any we’ve left behind. This one already has holes in it and was probably abandoned because of it. My lip curls as I wrap it around myself. I don’t want his body against mine in any way, shape, or form. I also don’t like that I enjoy the scent he left behind.

My foot brushes against my shirt on the floor. It’s a grotesque reminder of waking up with my shorts off and my pussy full ofhim. Again. I lift the shirt and a groan rises into my throat. The blood will never come out of it. Yet another article of clothing this man has destroyed.

With a sigh, I pull the towel closer and step into the hallway. My ankle cries as I hobble toward the kitchen and look around. I expect to see Ambrose, but he’s gone. Maybe he thought better of everything he was doing and left. I’d be forced to limp for miles to the nearest sign of life, but I don’t exactly hate the prospect, especially if it means I’m free of him.

But no. He comes through the front door with a plastic bag clutched in his fist. He says nothing as he goes to the fridge and begins placing things inside. Vodka. Ginger beer. Limes? It’s everything I’d need to make my favorite drink, but how the hell does he know what I drink?

Realization smacks me and reminds me he’s been stalking me, and it’s clearly gone on longer and with much more attention to detail than I expected. My brain struggles to wrap around the thought of him sitting in the shadows as I ordered a Moscow Mule and drank it, blissfully unaware.

It’s gross.

It’s weird.

So why am I the tiniest bit intrigued by it?

He isn’t the first man to obsess over me, but I can’t remember the last time someone studied things that mattered to me. Usually it’s my bra size or how flexible I am, not something so inconsequential as what I order at the bar. A pit forms in my stomach. Instead of being repulsed, I’m bordering on insane because I’m actually a bit touched. Then I think of everything else he’s done to me and yep, there it is. The repulsion returns.

I shuffle toward the stairs and grip the railing, but he’s at my side before I can take the first step.

His arm winds around my waist, and his warmth presses against my back. “You need to sit down. Those stairs are steep, and you’re still weak.”

“My clothes are upstairs in my bag.”

He guides me to the couch and pushes me onto the cushion, then he heads upstairs. When he returns with my bag, he holds it toward me. “You don’t have much in there.”

“Yeah, some asshole cut up most of my clothes.” I snatch it away, not wanting his hands on my things for a moment longer.

His lips twitch. “Maybe it was an asshole who didn’t want you parading around like a whore.”

“What’s your issue, dude? Whore this. Whore that. Who are you trying to convince? Or are you just struggling with the fact that you’re attracted to me?”

A growl leaves his throat, and he’s on me before I can blink. He places his hands to either side of my head on the back of the couch, bracketing me between biceps cut from marble. “I’m not attracted to you. I’m not attracted to womenlikeyou,” he snarls. Lies weave between his angry words, tied off with a knot of fallacy. His own voice box doesn’t believe the words he speaks.

I look into his dark eyes and steady myself. “Whatever you say.”

He leans closer and his warm breath rushes over my cheek. When he speaks, it’s all gravel and tempered frustration. “Don’t tempt me, tragedy. I’ll end the show right now. Break your little neck. Show you just how unattractive and worthless you are to me.”

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