Sweet Obsession: Chapter 11

Earth and air.

Rich brown and soft blue.

Marcus gazes down at me, his hands cradling my face.

Those beautiful, shocking eyes are glassy, and a tear slips down his cheek, cutting a path through the three streaks of blood that mar his face.

“Stay with me, Ayla. Stay with me.”

His voice is harsh and broken, his words growing muffled as the world starts to slip away.

Behind him, I see Theo’s crooked smile turn into a grimace of pain as he watches me die. Ryland’s face is contorted with fury, but for the first time, that fury isn’t directed at me. It’s for whoever killed me. Whoever did this to me.

“Please, angel.” Marcus grips my face tighter, lifting it toward his as his lips find mine. I taste copper and salt as blood and tears mix on my tongue. “Please don’t fucking leave me. Don’t let go.”

I can feel his weight over me. I can feel his cock driving into me.

Pleasure and pain light up every nerve ending in my body, and it’s almost enough to keep me from fading away. I wrap my arms around him, the fingernails of both hands digging into his back, trying to bring him closer.

Closer.

But already, I can feel the nerves of my right arm fraying, the internal bleeding cutting off circulation to the limb.

I’m dying.

I’m falling.

I’m fading away.

And not even Marcus Constantine can save me.

I wake with a loud sob, my body still shuddering from the remnants of the orgasm as sorrow and burning pleasure collide inside me.

Gasping for breath, I haul the covers over my head one-handed, then curl up on my side in the artificial darkness. Sunlight peeks in through little cracks between the blanket and the mattress, and I blink at the bright spots of light, letting my eyes adjust.

Goddammit.

This has to stop. This has to fucking stop.

Marcus Constantine has invaded my dreams since the night I stopped three bullets meant for him. But now that he’s invaded my life too, it feels like he’s everywhere. Like he’s in my fucking head, in my soul, tearing me apart from the inside out.

And instead of doing any of the normal things someone might do when they find out they’re being stalked, I went over to his house last night and had sex with him.

Unprotected sex.

I’ve been on the pill since I was fifteen, and even though I hadn’t even kissed anyone in years before last night, I never went off it. So it’s not that I’m worried about getting pregnant.

What scares me is that I didn’t even think about this until now. Marcus’s cum was inside me, is still inside me, and I didn’t even try to make him stop. In fact, if he had tried to pull out, to come on my stomach or something, I don’t think I would’ve let him in that moment.

Because I wanted to feel him.

All of him.

I wanted his cum to bathe my insides.

And that is so unbelievably fucked up.

It’s one thing to have a stalker, but that’s not just what this is. Because whether I want to admit it or not, my level of obsession with him mirrors the obsession he has with me.

I may not have been watching him for the past two and a half years, but I’ve been holding on to him all the same.

I barely know this man, and I don’t believe his insistence that some kind of blood bond exists between us, binding our souls together. I don’t believe that I’m responsible for one hundred million beats of his heart.

But that doesn’t explain why I’ve begun to crave his touch the way I do. Why he’s managed to break down defenses I spent years building up and perfecting.

He’s gorgeous and enigmatic and sexy as fuck, but it’s more than that.

I get hit on all the time at the bar—sometimes by men who actually seem interested, and sometimes by guys who just want to fuck the one-armed freak. But I’ve never had a problem telling any of those assholes to go screw themselves.

So why does this man have such a stranglehold on my soul?

Shoving away the remnants of my dream, and the flickering images of Marcus, Theo, and Ryland’s faces hovering over mine, I throw the covers off and slip out of bed.

As my feet hit the floor, a jolt of pain moves through my pussy, and I wince. I wasn’t wrong last night about being sore in the morning. My body feels raw and abused, and when I step into the bathroom and flick on the light switch, my mouth drops open slightly.

I can see Marcus everywhere on my body.

Little red marks decorate my collarbone, courtesy of his teeth. Bruises and little hickeys are peppered around the scar that sits high on my chest, and my wrist bears teeth marks too.

Reaching into the shower, I flip the water on as hot as it will go. As the bathroom begins to fill with steam, I step under the scalding spray. The heat sears my raw skin, but I scrub hard with a loofah anyway, as if I can somehow erase the marks and bruises Marcus left on me.

As if taking off a layer of skin will somehow erase the insane connection between us.

My hand slips between my legs, cleaning my pussy and easing the soreness there. I told Marcus he was too late to claim my virginity, but it barely feels like that right now. Before last night, it’d been so long since I’d had sex. I was so tight, and he was so big, that he might as well have been my first.

A throbbing pulse echoes in my clit, remnants of last night and the dream that woke me. The little bundle of nerves is still overly sensitive and almost tender, and I let out a soft noise when my fingertips brush against it.

I yank my hand away and switch my focus to my hair, shampooing and rinsing it before turning the water off and stepping out of the shower.

The woman looking back at me from the foggy mirror looks slightly less dazed, although no less marked.

Running my fingertips over the damp skin of my ruined arm, I trace the flowers I had drawn there, following the outline of the dark red petals before skimming the pads of my fingers over the deep blue-black ink that surrounds them.

The flowers look a little like pools of blood on a dark sidewalk. I never thought of that before, but now that the thought has occurred to me, it’s all I can see.

Goose bumps prickle over my wet skin, and I shake my head at my reflection.

It’s done.

The past can’t be undone, but the future can sure as fuck be reshaped.

And this ends here.

I don’t have to work until eight, so I spend the day locked up in my apartment. I scrounge through my meager pantry and find some food to cook, since I’ve been eating like shit lately. My stomach has been a knot of tension for the past couple weeks, and I haven’t had much of an appetite.

I’m not a great cook, but the food is palatable, and I force myself to eat all of it as I binge-watch trashy TV shows in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt.

At seven, I slip on a skirt and a pair of ankle boots, then throw on a shiny, low-cut top. I don’t bother with my prosthesis.

It’s a little cold for the amount of skin I have on display, but I throw a jacket on over it all and trot quickly down the stairs, then catch the bus a few blocks over. I’ll warm up at the bar, and I need to be wearing a skirt tonight. It’ll make things easier.

Duke’s is already busy when I walk in, and I dump my jacket in the back and take my spot behind the bar, losing track of time for a while as I mix cocktails and pour beers.

When Greg Pruitt wanders in at around eleven o’clock, I nod to myself in satisfaction. Good. I figured he’d be here tonight; Fridays are his usual night. He’s pretty fucking predictable, and I was counting on him coming into the bar.

Not that I couldn’t do this with any of the other men who are drinking and talking loudly in the chaotic, cramped space—but at least I know Greg is a sure thing.

It doesn’t need to be anything other than a quick fuck. Hell, I’m not sure my body can take much more than that right now.

But Marcus Constantine needs to be given a message. And maybe I do too.

This thing between us isn’t a thing.

It doesn’t exist.

It can’t.

So I’ll prove it to him.

When Greg makes his way to the bar to grab his usual martini, I make sure I’m the one who mixes it for him. Instead of brushing off his awkward attempts to hit on me, I lean farther over the beat up dark wood, smiling provocatively as I slide his drink over.

His gaze drops to my well-displayed cleavage, and he licks his lips.

Yeah. That was fucking easy.

I don’t do anything more than that for a while, just keep serving him drinks while he keeps ogling me and bragging incessantly about his mediocre job. But when the bar starts to die down at a little after one in the morning, I ask Duke if I can cut out early.

“Yeah. Sure.” The stocky man shrugs, his gaze running down my body curiously. There’s no heat in his eyes—he’s more like an uncle or a cranky older brother than anything—but he’s definitely noticed I’m not wearing my usual work outfit.

Whatever.

I don’t need to explain myself to him.

“Thanks.”

I duck into the back and grab my jacket, slinging it over one arm. When I re-emerge, I find Greg among the remaining patrons and catch his gaze. Letting a slow smile cross my face, I tug my bottom lip between my teeth, then jerk my head subtly toward the back doors down the hall.

He jerks in surprise, but he clearly gets the message. He scrambles off his bar stool and follows me through the crowd as I head toward the back.

A strange feeling twists in my stomach. Nerves? Fear? Guilt?

I don’t know what it is, but instead of examining it further, I shove it down as deep as I can and push open the heavy metal door that leads to the alley out back.

Generally speaking, I don’t like coming out here. The smell of burnt oil and asphalt sometimes brings back visceral, unpleasant memories. But tonight, I need to just suck it up and push through.

It needs to be here.

I’m almost positive either Marcus or one of his friends—or even all three—are keeping an eye on me even now. They probably know I stayed in my apartment all day, and although I didn’t see them inside the bar, they have to be nearby. I’m sure of it.

And if I’m wrong, and they’re not? Well, then, I guess this lesson will just be for myself.

A reminder not to let myself get attached to anyone.

Least of all my fucking stalkers.

Greg catches the heavy door before it swings shut and steps out of the bar behind me.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, his voice slurring a little. Fuck. I hope he’s not too drunk to get it up. “I didn’t think you’d ever go for me. Damn, you look fine tonight. Those legs…”

Those legs are covered in goose bumps, just like the rest of me is. I try to tell myself it’s from the cold, but I know that’s a lie. I try to tell myself the heavy churning feeling in my stomach is from eating a full meal for the first time in days.

But that’s a lie too.

Fucking hell, Ayla. Just do it. You’ve done this before. Just close your eyes, and it’ll be over quick.

Another memory of my fifteen-year-old self bubbles up in my mind, but I push it away. If I let my foster father invade my thoughts, there’s no fucking way I’ll get through this. And I need to get through it. I have to do it.

The truth is, I haven’t wanted to have sex, or even to be touched by another person, for years.

Something changed when Marcus and his two friends burst into my life. Something fundamental shifted inside me.

And I’m desperate to prove to myself that it’s not because of them.

“Yeah, well.” My voice sounds thin and reedy as I drop my coat and turn around to grab the lapels of Greg’s jacket, pulling him toward me as I back up against the brick wall of the alley. “What can I say? I’m having a weird night.”

“Oh, baby, I’m sorry.” He grins down at me, not looking very sorry at all. He’s a good-looking guy, but his smile does nothing for me. “Let me see if I can make it better.”

One hand comes up to grip the back of my neck, his other sliding over the tattoos on my right arm, inching toward the place where it was amputated. I shiver but pull him closer.

Just do it.

He lowers his head toward mine, and I close my eyes. He smells like some kind of citrusy cologne, and while the scent isn’t bad, it makes my throat tighten anyway.

When I feel the tickle of his breath against my lips, my whole body jerks, my muscles going involuntarily rigid.

“Baby,” he murmurs, his hand sliding down my chest to cup my breast. “I’m about to rock your world.”

I don’t need you to rock it. I just need you to break it.

Shoving myself away from the wall, I press into him, desperate to just fucking get this over with already.

But before my lips have a chance to do anything more than brush against his, he’s ripped away from me.

My eyes fly open just in time to see Greg go stumbling across the wide alley before crashing into the opposite wall. He catches himself with his hands, barely getting his arms up in time to keep from cracking his head against the brick, but before he can even turn around, Marcus is there, grabbing him by the front of his jacket and slamming his back against the wall with the force of a wrecking ball.

“You don’t touch her,” he growls, his voice as low and dangerous as an animal’s. “Don’t fucking touch her.”

Greg blinks groggily, his eyes flying wide as his bleary gaze slides from Marcus to me and then back. “What the hell? Man, fuck you.”

“Wrong answer.”

The two words fall like a hammer, and a second later, Marcus’s fist collides with Greg’s face.

“No! Marcus, don’t!”

I’m shocked out of my stupor by the heavy crunch of bone hitting bone, and I dart forward—but before I can make it two steps, rough hands pull me back, shoving me back against the wall. Ryland steps in front of me, holding me in place with his body, a broad forearm pressed against my chest.

Marcus hits Greg again, sending his head whipping to the side, and I shove against Ryland. “What the fuck—”

“Don’t, Rose.”

Theo’s voice draws my attention, and I glance to my left. Fuck, I didn’t even realize he was here too. They all are. I knew it was possible, but I didn’t think—I didn’t expect—

I didn’t expect this.

Ignoring his quiet warning, I shove against Ryland’s restraint again as Marcus rains blow after blow down on Greg. The man with the coppery red hair tries to fight back, and he gets in one good swing that cracks against Marcus’s cheek, but it’s not an even fight by a long shot.

“Marcus!” I scream. “Fucking stop it! Stop!”

He finally does. But I know it’s not because I told him to.

Greg’s face is a bloody mess, his lip split and one eye already swelling shut when Marcus shoves him against the wall again, grabbing his chin roughly in one hand. He tilts Greg’s head, pointing his face in my general direction.

“Do you see that woman? Look at her.” His voice is low and eerily calm considering the violence that just exploded from him. “Go ahead. Look.” He drops his head closer to Greg’s, his lips pulling back from his teeth in something like a snarl. “I want you to remember that face. Because if you ever see it again, you will walk the other way. If she’s on one side of the street, you’ll be on the other. Or better yet, on another fucking street entirely. You will not come back to this bar. Ever. You will not speak to her. Ever. And if you touch her again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

He shoves Greg roughly away from him, making him stumble several steps toward the mouth of the alley. The man gets his feet under him, and for a second, he looks like he might try to do something, to stand up to Marcus.

Then he must decide he wants to live, because his body seems to deflate a little as he turns and practically runs out of the alley.

Silence falls for a long moment, broken only by the dim sound of music from the bar through the thick brick wall and the distant noises of the city.

Marcus is standing near the opposite wall of the alley, his back to me and his head slightly bowed as he breathes deeply. Ryland is still holding me in place with a muscular forearm pressed to my chest, but I’ve stopped struggling against him.

My body feels numb, and it’s not from the cold. Hell, I can’t even tell if it is cold anymore.

I thought I could end this. I thought I could show Marcus that he doesn’t own me, break his fascination with me by fucking someone else.

But I guess that makes me the biggest goddamn idiot of them all.

There is no end. This thing, whatever it is—it doesn’t have one.

Except maybe death.

If you touch her again, I’ll fucking kill you.

Marcus’s words careen around in my head, making me dizzy. He meant it. I could hear it in his voice.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” My voice is a harsh rasp, as if my vocal chords have completely dried up.

The broad-shouldered man’s head whips up. He spins around, striding toward me so fast I feel like I’m about to get hit by a car.

Ryland releases his hold and steps back just as his friend reaches me, and Marcus’s hands slam against the rough brick on either side of my head.

“What’s wrong with me?” The fury that blazed in his eyes when he threatened Greg still burns almost as fiercely now, and it takes everything I have not to shrink back in the face of it. “I think you’re asking the wrong person that question, angel.”

“Oh, really? I’m not the one who just beat the shit out of a perfectly innocent man in a fucking alley!”

His expression darkens, the blue and brown of his eyes churning. “He’s not innocent. He tried to take what isn’t his.”

The conviction in his voice wraps around me like a vise. It squeezes my lungs. Compresses my heart.

I shake my head, forcing the words out. “I don’t… belong to you.”

Marcus’s expression shifts. The hard lines of his features soften a little, and he lifts one hand from the wall to brush his fingertips down my face. Memories of the way he touched me last night erupt through my body, visceral and intense, and despite everything, I have to fight down the instinctual, bone-deep urge to lean in to his touch.

There’s a tiny cut just above his cheekbone, and the beginning of a bruise from where Greg got his lucky shot in. The small streak of dark blood glints in the dim light as he shakes his head.

“That’s where you’re wrong, angel. I’ve been inside you. You’ve taken my cock. You’ve taken my cum. You’re fucking mine.”

My nipples harden at his words, as another wave of memories pours over me—through me. My pussy clenches around nothing, remembering the thick girth of his cock as it split me open.

Goddammit. Why do his words feel so fucking true?

But they can’t be.

I can’t let them be true.

My ill-fated plan to show Marcus and myself that I’m not his possession may have failed, but I still have to do something. To fight against the magnetic pull that draws us inexorably together. To at least put up some resistance to my slide into oblivion.

So I do.

I do the only thing I can think of.

Shoving his hand aside with my good arm, I slip out from between him and the wall, pivoting before he can stop me. Theo is standing right there, and I do what I never got a chance to do with Greg.

I wrap my arm around his neck and press my lips hard to his.

He’s bigger than me. Not quite as broad-shouldered as Marcus, but the tallest of the three men and made of solid fucking muscle. But he still staggers back a half step as I throw myself at him, surprise knocking him off balance.

His hands come up as if by instinct to grab my waist, steadying me, and for a moment, his lips are stiff and unyielding against mine.

Then they soften, and the automatic, instinctive grip on my waist tightens as he pulls me closer to him, wrapping his arms around me.

His lips move against mine, full and sensual, and when his tongue darts out, I welcome it, sliding my own tongue against his.

The faint cherry and oak smell I remember from the car last night infuses my nostrils as I breathe through my nose, unable to pull my lips away from his long enough to get a full breath any other way.

This was meant to be a quick kiss.

A kiss to prove a point.

A kiss to break something.

But instead, this kiss ignites something new.

As his mouth devours mine, hungry and sweet, I can’t remember what the point of it was anymore. I can’t remember why I wasn’t supposed to enjoy it.

If Marcus’s kiss is sin, Theo’s kiss is redemption.

His large hands are splayed over my back, holding me up and pinning me to his body as he nearly bends me over backward, fucking my mouth with his tongue.

“All right.” Marcus’s voice is hard, and it seems to come from miles away. “All right!”

Almost before he finishes speaking, I’m hauled bodily out of Theo’s embrace, stumbling a little as disorientation floods me. Marcus pulls me into his arms, my back to his front, wrapping me up tight. I can feel the rapid thud of his heart against my back as I blink up at Theo.

The blond man’s eyes are wide, the usual teasing gleam gone from their depths.

He looks almost… shocked.

Because he didn’t expect me to kiss him? Or because he didn’t know it would be like that when I did?

I can’t hide the dazed shock in my own expression as I stare at Theo as if I’m transfixed. What the hell was that? What just happened?

Marcus releases me, and Theo tenses as his friend steps forward, every line of his muscular body taut and hard. For a second, I’m certain that Marcus is going to beat the shit out of Theo just like he did to Greg, and my stomach drops out. I don’t want to see that. I don’t want to see more violence and carnage.

But more than that, I don’t want to see it between these two men. I don’t want to know what happens when the deep friendship between them fractures.

Did I just fracture it?

A momentary twinge of guilt races through me, even though it shouldn’t. We’re on an uneven playing field, and as the most disadvantaged player, I shouldn’t feel bad about doing whatever I have to in order to survive.

But something about the bond between these three men is special. It’s different. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before in my life, and it’s the kind of thing I’ve always longed for—in those rare moments when I could admit to that kind of weakness in myself.

It’s not the kind of thing that should be broken lightly.

Marcus’s muscles shift as he clenches and unclenches his hands. Theo watches him carefully, not looking cowed, but not looking like he wants to fight either.

Ryland, too, is tense, and the look of fury on his face when he shifts his gaze to me eclipses anything he’s thrown my way before.

Then Marcus turns slowly, his eyes finding mine. The brutal rage that filled his expression earlier is gone. He looks almost calm.

He stalks toward me smoothly, looping an arm around my back when he reaches me. I press my hand against his chest, trapping it between our bodies as he hauls me toward him, crushing my body against his.

“I know what you’re trying to do, Ayla,” he says quietly. “And it won’t work. You think I want you less because you kissed Theo? You think that changes anything between us? It doesn’t. And it never will.”

He lowers his head, brushing his cheek against mine as his lips find the shell of my ear. His voice is soft, simple. Honest.

“Those two are like my brothers. I will never hurt them. I will never fight them. But if you ever touch a man besides any of the ones present right now, that man will pay for it dearly. Do you understand?”

I notice he didn’t say I will pay for it dearly. Only that the man will. He’s not threatening me—at least, not directly.

Warning me, maybe. Testing me.

But what kind of person would I have to be to knowingly drag another man into the fucked up mess that exists between me and these three?

I nod, the small motion making Marcus’s stubble scrape against my cheek. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

His hand fists my hair, and he tugs my head back as he turns his own head, claiming my lips in a searing kiss. It’s hard and almost vicious, and I kiss him back the same way, taking out every bit of my helpless fury on his lips and teeth and tongue.

I want to kill him through this kiss.

I want to tear him apart.

I want to burn him down and dance on the fucking ashes.

But when he finally pulls away, breathing hard as he stares down at me with his lips red and swollen, he’s still alive.

At least, by some miracle, so am I.