Brutal Obsession (90)

“Run.”

There must be something about this time that makes her believe it’ll be different, because she doesn’t hesitate. She leaves everything behind—her precious pointe shoes, her phone and bag in the corner.

She bolts out the door, and I count to five in my head. I pull my sweatshirt off and drop it to the floor next to her shoes. I crack my neck and roll my shoulders back, taking a deep breath.

Then I chase.

The door to the street is just closing when I hit it. It slams open, loud in the quiet night. I spot her on the sidewalk, booking it away from me, but the noise makes her flinch. I break into a run after her.

I’m faster.

It won’t be long before I catch her, unless I toy with my food before I devour her…

She must step on a stone, because she suddenly stumbles. I purposefully slow, letting her feel my hand graze her back. If I had wanted to stop her, I could’ve. But she lets out a frightened yelp and puts on a burst of speed.

She knows this chase is different.

Last time, she went toward the woods. She wanted to be concealed when I fucked her. This time… this time, I’m not going to take her where I catch her. As much as I want to, I’m not going to ruin this experience for us.

We’re at the edge of the neighborhood when I run out of patience. The cat-and-mouse game can only last so long, and I’ve already suffered through Coach’s practice. My hair is still damp from my shower at the stadium.

She’s been yards ahead of me, but now it’s feet. Then inches.

I don’t want to tackle her, so I grab her hair instead. I wind the soft strands through my fingers and guide her into a slower run, easing her back toward me.

She whirls around and shoves me—more fight that I would’ve expected, sure, but I’m delighted at the turn of events. Doesn’t matter what she does, though. If she claws at me, if she goes for my face. I’ve got one focus: her pretty little throat.

I wrap both hands around it, ignoring the way she pushes and grabs at my wrists. I pull her close to me and squeeze. Not her airway but her pulse. I want to feel it slow under my fingers. I want to know the moment she loses consciousness. We’re just outside one of the streetlights. I’m in shadow to her, backlit, but her angel face is crystal clear.

Her mouth opens and closes. Maybe she’s trying to tell me that she’s done, that I’m pushing too far. There’s no stopping this. There’s no stopping me.

Her fingers slip from my wrists, and her eyes roll back. She goes limp, and I quickly capture her falling body.

She’s right: this isn’t like before. I’m not going to fuck her until she comes or any such nonsense as that. We’re going to get right to the point.

This is an interrogation.





39





VIOLET





“Time to wake up,” Greyson says in my ear.

I open my eyes and blink rapidly, trying to make sense of where we are. Not on the sidewalk anymore, that’s for sure. The air is warm, absent of a breeze. I’m sitting with my arms over my head. I tug, but they don’t move. Something holds firm around my wrists.

A rattling to my right draws my attention. He stands at a wall of windows, pulling a chain to open the vertical blinds. We’re in the dance studio, and the lights are off. My eyes catch on myself in the mirror, but it’s hard to reconcile what I’m seeing with the truth.

I’m naked to my waist, my wrists tied to the bar just over my head. My skin pricks, goosebumps rising on my flesh. I force my attention away, back to Greyson. He still stands by the large windows, but his attention is now on me. He’s got the blinds open. Moonlight streams in.

“What are you doing?” I scoot backward, until I’m as upright as I can be. My back bumps the wall, and I tilt my head back to get a better look at what’s binding my hands. It looks like he’s used shoestring. I rotate my hands, trying to see if there’s a way for it to come off, but I don’t get far.

Greyson stops in front of me.

I pause and look up at him.

“You’re not getting free.” He nudges my bare foot.

I wince. I move it, bending my knees to draw my legs in close, and a streak of blood follows.

Stepped on something.

My head hurts. My throat, too, when I swallow. Like I’ve got blades in my vocal cords.

When he gets down on my level, right between my legs, it occurs to me that this isn’t a game anymore. I don’t know who crossed the line first, but we’ve blown past it.

I don’t bother asking him to stop, to let me go. I know he won’t.

So I tip my head back again, letting it rest against the wall.

He narrows his eyes. “You’ve lost your fear.”

“Pointless, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He slides his hand up my right leg, starting at my ankle. “Let’s get something out of the way. You’re not here for pleasure.”

My mouth is dry.

“You’re here because you took something from me.”

It didn’t take him long to notice. That’s satisfying.

I chose correctly. My assessment of him proved to be accurate.

I lean forward as far as I can. My arms stretch backward, my shoulders straining. I’m flexible, but even this is pushing it.