Page 31 of Driving My Obsession

I turn and motion for her to follow me, and like a whipped dog, she does. “We should get back to the house. The play is almost over, but I’m willing to see what surprises you have in store for the final act.”

And it will be the final act. There will be no encore. When the curtain falls in a few days, this traveling show will come to an end. I refuse to back down next time, no matter how the uncertainty rallies against my purpose. After all, a tragedy can’t have a happy ending.

ChapterNineteen

Oaklyn

Ilimp through the woods on the way back to the cabin, keeping some distance between me and my attacker. My stalker. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? I nearly fucked him willingly. Had he not stopped to check the breaker box, I would have allowed him between my legs.

The breaker box. He cut it off.

I fight the urge to repeatedly slam my palm against my forehead and rave about what an absolute moron I’ve been. Though I’ve never considered myself a genius, I at least counted myself among the intelligent—an egocentric distinction I can no longer claim. It doesn’t take Sherlock fucking Holmes to put the pieces together now. The way he always seemed to show up at the club when I finished my shift. The fact that only my stripper clothes were destroyed when my line of work disgusts him. His willingness to drive me, a complete stranger, halfway across the country. It’s so obvious.

But not all of it was so clear, I remind myself. How had he recorded the video in the private area? How had he plastered pictures all over the dressing room and left an acorn and some jizz in my shoes without drawing any attention?

Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on myself.

A sharp pain cuts a path from my ankle to my knee, and I stumble against a tree. Rough bark scrapes against my cheek. I try to keep from making a sound, but a whimper squeaks out of me. Ambrose keeps going. He’s walking pretty fucking proud of himself while I’m absolutely crippled. He wouldn’t have caught me if it wasn’t for this damn ankle. Just one more way my injury has affected my life.

“Keep up,” he calls over his shoulder.

I stare at the back of his tousled hair. It’s not brown. Not blonde. Somewhere in the middle. I’ve sat beside him several times now, but I haven’t really studied him like this. Inching through the forest, I have nowhere else to look.

“My ankle hurts,” I say, dropping to the forest floor to rub away the ache in my useless limb.

He stops and turns to face me, his brown eyes narrowing. “Your ankle wouldn’t hurt if I had killed you like I was supposed to. Would you like me to remedy that?”

Maybe that would be better at this point. I’m returning to my parents’ cabin with a man who plans to use me for several days before ultimately ending me. I stupidly asked for more time because I hoped it would give me a chance to prove my life is worth living. But is it? Now that I’ve been placed outside the normalcy of everyday life, I can look through the window and see my existence for what it really is. I don’t like what I see, so why would he? I’m prolonging my suffering at this point, but the human need to keep sucking air won’t allow me to give up just yet.

So I don’t answer him.

My silence doesn’t seem to sit well with him, because he stalks toward me with clenched fists and a set jaw. I tremble harder with every crunch of the leaf litter beneath his shoes. When he reaches me, I clench my eyelids shut and await the moment he unleashes his frustration on me. Well, I wait for him to do more than he already has. Then his arms wrap around me and...I’m rising?

He cradles me against his chest and takes a step forward. While allowing him to carry me would be of benefit to my busted leg, the warmth of his hands on my bare skin makes me uncomfortable. I wriggle in his grasp and try to free myself, but he stops and clutches me tighter, his fingertips digging into my muscles.

“Do you want help or do you want to keep walking on your crippled ankle?” he snaps, his muscles straining to contain me.

I don’t want his fucking help. I don’t want his hands on me. He’s the reason my ankle feels like I’ve taken a jackhammer to the joint. But Ican’tkeep walking on it. The metal plate grinds beneath my flesh and sends a bolt of pain into my hip with each unstable step. So I stop squirming. I relax every muscle in my body, hoping he enjoys carrying my dead weight.

Asshole.

The foliage thickens around us, and we reach the part of the woods where the thorny vines run rampant. They shredded my skin on the way in, and I brace myself for more of the same on the way out. With the way he’s holding me, I’ll bear the brunt of it.

Seeming to realize this, he stops and sets me on my feet, then gives me his back and squats down. “Climb on.”

Allowing him to pick me up was one thing, but willingly draping my body over him and pressing my boobs into his back is another. I go to take a step, determined to do this on my own, but my body refuses to cooperate. My arm flails for a nearby tree trunk, but I only succeed in slicing my palm on a vine. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper as I pull my hand to my chest.

“Would you stop being so stubborn and just get on my goddamn back? I’d like to make it to the cabin before next week.”

“Fuck you,” I say under my breath. If he hears me, he doesn’t react.

But he’s right, as much as I hate to admit it. Getting myself through the tangle of branches, bushes, and vines will take forever. The cabin might only be one hundred yards away, but that’s miles on this ankle.

Closing my eyes and heaving a sigh, I step closer and position myself against his back with my arms wrapped around his neck. I’m braless, and I can only hope he doesn’t feel the hard points my nipples have tightened into. It has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the chill in the air. He hooks his powerful arms beneath my thighs and rises with little effort, then releases his hold once he’s standing.

“You’ll need to hook your legs around me,” he says. “I can’t move shit out of the way without the use of my arms.”

I hate the way his deep voice vibrates through his back and sinks into my core, but I grit my teeth and do as he says. As we weave through the compact forest, I duck my head and press my cheek against the back of his neck to shield my face. His leathery scent rushes into my nose. Part of my body recoils with disgust, but the other part—namely my lower half—wants me to keep breathing in that glorious smell. I try to appease the opposing sides of my brain by sniffing, just not as deeply.

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