Brutal Obsession (123)

“You live here?”

Mia exhales. “Only when I want to get away,” she says. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour.”

“Oh, no—”

“Get out of the car, Violet.” She meets my gaze for a second, then turns away to open her door. She climbs out, leaving me alone.

The dog can’t quite reach the porch. It strains toward Mia, still barking. Its tail wags, though. I swiftly hop out and follow her, skirting the dog. Spit flies from its mouth with each bark, and I find myself flinching each time, too.

I hurry into the cabin, and the door slams behind me.

I spin around.

Mia stands in the shadows, her arms folded over her chest. “Had a good little chat with Shawn, did you?”

“What?”

“After all I’ve done for you, Violet? You were going to leave me?” She steps forward.

I glance around the room. It’s completely not her style—an old, colorful blanket tossed over a worn leather couch, a thick rug, and wood coffee table. Dark wood everywhere. The heavy curtains are pulled shut over the windows, blocking out most of the sunlight.

“Sit down,” she hisses at me.

“I think I’d rather go,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Mia, I wasn’t going to leave you.” I step back and bump into a side table. The lamp on it wobbles, and I grab at it.

Turning my back on her is a mistake.

She wraps her arm around my neck, yanking me into her. I lose my balance and grab at her, and that’s when she tightens her grip. It doesn’t matter how much I struggle, or scratch at her, or try to kick. She just doesn’t let go.

Until white spots dance in front of my eyes.

This is where Grey would release me.

But she doesn’t. Not until a cold darkness reaches up and drags me down.

And maybe not even then.





54





GREYSON





We’re preparing our equipment when my phone goes off.

Willow



Call me ASAP.





I frown and glance at Knox, who’s busy wrapping his hockey stick, and then call her. We only arrived a few minutes ago. The bus ride was somber, everyone lost in their own thoughts before this game. If we lose it, we’re out.

“I can’t find Violet,” Willow says, not bothering with a greeting. “She didn’t hitch a ride with you, did she?”

“What the fuck do you mean, you can’t find her?” I stand, abandoning my shit and leaving the locker room altogether. I love my teammates, but they’re nosy as hell. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I called her, and it goes straight to voicemail. When I showed up at the CPB building, Mia’s assistant was the only one there. Said everyone was done already and she wasn’t sure…” Willow hesitates. “She said she thought she saw Violet talking to a new choreographer after the auditions.”

My lungs aren’t working. I can’t believe this is happening.

Her stalker finally acted? Took her?

“You checked all the usual spots? She didn’t just go home instead of calling you immediately?” I pace the hallway, in desperate need to hit something.

Of course it happens now. When I’m an hour away.

“Willow,” I snap.

“Jesus, Greyson,” she yells. “I checked everywhere I could think before I called you. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

She hangs up on me.

I swear and call her back but get no response.

“Devereux,” Coach calls, poking his head out of the locker room. “What the fuck are you doing?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to bring rationality back. Either that, or I’m going to lose my shit on Roake. I’d bet neither of us would enjoy the consequences of that. So… I’ve got one option.

I look over at him. “I need your help.”





55





VIOLET





My head pounds. When I work up the nerve to crack my eyes open, I find myself in a bedroom. The bed is made underneath me, a small nightstand next to my head. There are no windows, just a single lamp on a dresser on the opposite wall. There’s one exit, the wood door closed, and a rocking chair takes up the additional space. It makes everything a bit cramped, like this room wasn’t supposed to exist.

It immediately gives me the creeps.

I sit up slowly, eyeing the glass of water on the nightstand. A clinking draws my attention to my ankle.

A padded cuff is locked on my leg, a chain snaking from it down over the foot of the bed. It rattles when I move, the links knocking against each other.

I’m so fucked.

I touch my head, convinced I must be cut open or have a lump the size of Alabama from the way it aches and pulses. But there’s nothing. Just a lack of oxygen to thank, I guess. I swing my legs over the bed, my toes touching a scratchy rug, and the chain falls to the floor.

I flinch.

Footsteps immediately pound overhead. I count out the seconds and make it to twelve before the door opens.

Mia steps into the space, looking around, then at me. She seems angry for some reason. I open my mouth, but she strides forward and smacks me. Her palm collides with my cheek, and my head whips to the side.