Brutal Obsession (27)

When did I become this person?

My phone vibrates.

Mom



Got a call from Mia Germain. She wants to talk to you.





Then her contact information below it. A phone number sits glaringly in the gray text bubble. Ignoring the fact that my mom is texting me—something strange all in itself—my heart does a funny skip at what she said.

Mia Germain is the director of the Crown Point Ballet, the company I danced with up until my injury. I had left rather suddenly, of course, after my broken leg led to ongoing nerve pain complications.

I had to give up my spot as the lead for Swan Lake.

I had just been home for the weekend, visiting my mother, when Greyson hit me. Stupid twist of fate and bad fucking timing.

I contemplate reaching out to Mia now, but it’s approaching midnight on a Friday. I’m not sure why my mother is awake, unless she’s just getting in from a night out herself. I sigh and unlock my apartment door. It’s silent and dark, an indication that Willow isn’t home yet. And who knows if she’ll be home tonight with the way Knox was looking at her.

Besides, I don’t want to get my hopes up that Mia would have some solution to my impossible problem. Something that would give me back the months that I wasted eating real food for the first time in my life, putting on more than just muscle. I’m what most people would consider healthy, but in the ballet world? I’m far away from the size I maintained.

That hurts to admit. That I didn’t develop a healthier relationship with food until I started going to therapy—not just physical but talk. And a nutritionist was added to my team, coming to chat with me while I worked on flexibility and strength training with the physical therapist.

There are limits to how far we can push the human body.

I let out a sigh and drop my phone on the nightstand, then strip out of my clothes. I toss them in the hamper and pull on an oversized shirt. In the dark, I go into my bathroom and flick the light on. I don’t want to see my reflection, but I force myself to look. To take in the black and blue streaks down my cheeks and mouth. My bloodshot, stinging eyes. My lips are swollen. My hair, even, is a mess. First Steele gripping it, using me the way he wanted, and then Greyson.

A shudder works its way up my spine, and my stomach churns. I’m going to puke.

I lunge for the toilet and barely make it in time. I fall to my knees and vomit, sour bile burning my throat and mouth. When my stomach finally stops rolling and my throat stops convulsing, I sit back on my heels.

I let two guys fuck my mouth, and I don’t know if I can forgive myself for giving in to Greyson like that. The more he pushes, the more I want to stab his eyes out—but in that, I caved.

He’s learning how to manipulate me.

I turn on the shower, the skin-crawling feeling kicking up.

It seems to be coming in waves, like flashbacks of what just happened in the locker room.

And his words.

The expression on his face.

He was a man possessed…

And I have a feeling it’s my fault. Somehow, I intrigue him. I caught the attention of whatever demons lurk under Greyson’s skin.

I step under the cool water and tip my head back. I can’t do hot. Not when I’m burning from the inside out. I brush my teeth and rinse out my mouth until I have no evidence of my physical reaction to my horror. I spit and dunk my face under the stream. And then I scrub. My face, the makeup coming off on my washcloth, my neck, my chest. Every inch of my skin, leaving it pink and tingling.

Finally, I feel a little bit more human. I dry off and slip back into the shirt, then go into my room.

I stop dead.

Someone stands in the middle of my room.

Tall. Black outfit. Hood. Mask.

Good guys don’t wear masks.

I open my mouth to scream, and the guy rushes past me. He’s around the corner and down the hall before I can so much as let out a peep, and my fucking instinct is to chase after him. I make it two steps before I realize what a dumb idea that is, and I skid to a stop.

But I do make sure he’s gone, and then I lock the door. I contemplate sliding a chair under it for good measure, but I don’t want to lock Willow out. My heart pounds, and I press my palm to my chest.

I turn on every light in the apartment and check the windows. Even in Willow’s room. Everything is locked. He must’ve come in behind me… I shiver and go back to my room. I should call Willow. Tell her to be on guard in case she comes home drunk and unaware.

Our safe neighborhood is deteriorating.

Back in my room, I hit the switch for the overhead light and scour my space. It feels colder, but maybe that’s just my imagination. I check my window, and it’s cracked.

A more violent shiver racks through me.

He came through my window.

I slam it closed and lock it, then look at the space again. It still seems untouched, but I can’t be certain. Not at a glance. My desk has always been a mess. It’s just part of my chaotic organization—papers everywhere, a splayed textbook, the chair pulled out and half-covered in almost dirty clothes.

Part of me, the part that reads thrillers and romantic suspense novels, suspects it could be Greyson trying to mess with me further. Drive me into a tailspin or closer to insanity. It would benefit him—probably for no other reason than to feel satisfaction.

I grunt and sweep everything off my desk. The books crash to the floor. My computer bounces once, the charging cable snagging. The papers are slower to float to the carpet, and they go farther. They scatter.