Devious Obsession: Chapter 35

Property of Steele O’Brien.

That’s what the fucking tattoo says.

I pull my underwear up with an exhale, trying to keep calm.

After he let me up, I went home. It was four in the morning, but I just couldn’t be around him anymore. Simple as that. I was lucky to find my phone on the way out, deader than a doornail. No one was on the streets on my walk back, and even Uncle wasn’t waiting for me in my apartment.

I fell asleep promptly, only waking when the sun streamed in through my window. I showered, somewhat disgruntled at the extra care I had to pay to the tattoo while washing.

Now my phone is alive, and the first thing I see after dressing is an email from the music theory professor I had met weeks ago. William Wilcox. I snatch it up and unlock my phone, scanning the email.

Holy.

Shit.

It’s happening. There’s an audition piece attached to the email for me to learn.

I leap up and spin in a circle, suddenly realizing that I haven’t played the piano in four days. How the hell did I just—forget? Did Steele blindside me so much that I forgot my one true love in life?

I need my sheet music. I need to get back to practice immediately. Plus learning this new piece, which I have to perfect in a limited amount of time.

“Oh my god.” I can’t find it.

My whole binder of music is gone.

I drop to my knees and look under my bed, my stomach in my throat.

Not here.

Where’s the last place I saw my music?

When’s the last time I had it?

I scramble around my room, yanking open my closet doors. The bag of money stares at me, reminding me that I still have to figure out next semester’s financial situation, and also somehow return this blood money to my dad, without actually giving it to him.

I’d like to keep up my no-contact record, thank you very much.

Besides the eyesore bag of cash, there isn’t much else in my closet. Just clothes and some storage bins. None of which hold my binder of sheet music.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

I have a music class that requires a final performance. It’s what I’ve been working on since the start of the semester. Technically difficult pieces of composition that have tested me at every turn.

Yes, I could reprint them. But then I’d lose my notes, and it would be like starting over.

From scratch.

The thought of walking onstage and performing anything less than perfect is nauseating.

With sudden clarity, I know exactly who took my sheet music.

Steele.

I stand in the middle of my room and shake out my arms. I’m too hot. My skin is tight, my muscles locking up. My stomach rolls like I’m going to be sick.

When did he come in here and snatch it?

And why was I so blinded by him that I let him?

The last thing I’m going to do is go begging for my music back. I’m not pathetic. I will not cower in front of him like I’ve done to every other imposing asshole. My mother instilled that in me. The fear. The way she thought every man was a version of my father.

So I don’t understand why she married Stephen O’Brien without hesitation.

I don’t understand how she trusted him above anyone else.

How she let my sisters live under his roof, knowing what men are capable of doing.

“I’m home,” Thalia calls, the apartment door slamming closed behind her. “Are you here?”

My eyebrows rise. Truth be told, I should’ve kept a closer eye on my roommate at the party. Should’ve kept track of her after she arrived with the rest of the dance team.

Well, didn’t Steele say he drugged me?

So maybe my friend should’ve kept better track of me.

I hate that immediate accusation. It’s not her fault, it’s Steele’s. The guy who calls himself my boyfriend, and now apparently my keeper. I want to go out into the living room and watch her make a cup of coffee, see the rosy redness of her cheeks that might belie the kind of night she had.

But instead, I can’t move. A sharp loneliness rises, closing my throat. The echo of the counselor asking who I had resounds in my head. Besides Thalia, who else do I have to talk about what’s happening to me? What Steele is doing to me?

I hurry out of my room and into the common area, stopping short at the sight of Thalia.

On the counter.

Kissing my uncle.

For a moment, all I can do is stare. His tattooed hands are on her waist, his fingers digging into her sweatshirt. Her arms are around his neck.

I stumble backward. One step, two, and then I’m spinning and rushing back to the safety of my room. I close my door and press my back to it, covering my eyes.

Dramatic, maybe, but what the fuck? Is that the first time they’ve done that?

Or is it a regular thing?

Without thinking, I cross to the window and remove the bar that’s held it shut after Steele’s intrusion. I shove the glass upward and then unhook the screen. I get that out of the way, setting it against my dresser, and stick my head out.

It’s not so far a drop.

I cannot picture for one more moment the sort of debauchery that’s happening in this apartment. I thought she was with Finch! Apparently, I had it very, very wrong.

That, over everything else, drives me to swing one leg out. I straddle the windowsill and eye the drop again, then move my other leg out.

“One, two, three,” I whisper, heaving my body out on three.

Strong hands catch my hips and lower me down.

I look up, only half surprised to see Steele in front of me. I was too busy staring at the ground to see who was approaching, and now he’s got ahold of me. When my feet touch the grass, he lets go. Still standing too close, though. All I would have to do is sway forward and my chest would brush his.

“What are you running away from?”

I blow out a breath. “What makes you think I’m running away?”

“Sensible ladies use the front door.”

“What makes you think I’m sensible?”

He smirks. “Certainly not your way of exiting your apartment, that’s for sure.” He leans down. “Or maybe it’s the way you like to fuck that gives it away.”

I smack his shoulder, belatedly remembering my anger. “You stole my music.”

His eyebrows rise. “Did I?”

“Yes, and I’m mad at you for it.” I glance up at the window. The top is out of reach to close, which is a minor inconvenience.

Whatever.

I brush past Steele and step onto the sidewalk, striding quickly toward school. He doesn’t follow. Not immediately. And a quick glance back shows him stretching upward to close my window for me, his shirt riding up and revealing a slice of his abs.

My cheeks heat, and I whip back around.

Soon enough, he’s at my side. A step behind, like a hulking shadow that I can’t remove. I ignore him. The tattoo keeps drawing my attention, the ache of it like a sunburn. My panties irritate it, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from lashing out.

“I like you mad,” he says. “But something else has you riled. Nothing I’ve done would make you go out the window. Even stealing sheet music. Which I did not do.”

I ignore that observation. I really don’t want to talk about it anyway. We get to campus in silence, and I go straight to the music hall. There’s a printer I can use to get this audition piece printed, and then I’ll be well on my way to rehearsal. Then I just need to perfect it and schedule my audition.

Easy.

He keeps up with me while I do just that, snatching the pages still warm with ink the moment they come to a rest in the tray. I reach for them, but he blocks me with his body. He flips through the pages, then faces me again. Still holding those damn papers like they’re not the most important thing right now.

This is my future we’re talking about.

“Give them back.” I hold out my hand.

“What will you give me in return?” His eyes dance.

No. “Nothing, Steele. I’ll give you all the cold shoulders you could ever imagine—and none of my fight.”

His smile fades. “What’s really wrong?”

“You’re what’s wrong,” I snap, reaching again for the pages.

He lets me have them this time. They slip harmlessly through his fingers.

I press them to my chest. My heart is beating furiously, and I don’t know what to do to stop it. How to calm down around him. I just want to hit him and yell at him and—

“Aspen,” he murmurs.

“You branded me like some—some—” I shake my head.

Not doing this.

I go to a practice room, my ID unlocking it with a soft click. I try to close him out. I do close him out, for all of three seconds. Until he taps his ID against the pad and the door gives him admittance, too. I forgot he did that before. The day he drugged me, he just strolled in.

My brows furrow. “You don’t play an instrument.”

“This school loves hockey,” he counters. He pulls the shade on the door’s vertical window. “I don’t need to play an instrument to be allowed access if I ask for it.”

I humph. “I don’t want you here.”

“And I don’t want you upset with me.” He inches closer, fingering the strap of my bag. Dragging it down my arm and tossing it aside.

“Who says you can fix it?” I let him take the sheet music out of my hands, too. “Maybe my anger just needs to burn for a while.”

“It’s not anger.” He frowns. “I could make you mad, if that would help? Instead of what this is. I think it’s disappointment. Are you upset?”

“Cute, but no. I need to practice. I need the rest of my music back.” I lift my chin. “Now, maybe if you weren’t completely obsessed with hindering me at every step—”

“I already told you I didn’t take it.” His head tips. “Someone else, then?”

I groan. It’s him. I know it’s him. There’s no one else it could be.

“I’ll take care of it,” he adds.

Yeah, right. “It’s not as easy as reprinting it. If it was, I would’ve done so already.”

“Okay.” His gaze drops lower. “How’s your tattoo?”

“It’s been less than twelve hours.” I step back. “It’s fine.”

“Feeling okay?”

I don’t like the concern in his eyes. The weight of it sits on my skin and makes me think he actually gives a shit. Everything he’s done since our parents got married has been an act. Not coming home from Crown Point for the summer. Making my life hell on repeat. The softer things that any normal person would perceive as him changing or becoming good—lies. Manipulations.

“It’s fine,” I repeat.

My ass hits the piano, compressing keys. The notes fill the small room. I had hardly realized I was backpedaling until now, and suddenly, I can’t go anywhere. He’s right in front of me, with no signs of letting me free.

Instead, I watch him undo the buttons of my jeans and drag the fabric down. He pushes me back again, making me sit on the piano. The notes sound bitter, clashing. It matches my thrashing heart.

He lowers my panties and stares at the black ink lettering.

I close my eyes.

“You know what went through my mind when I did it?” He traces just below his work, eliciting goosebumps to rise on my body.

“No.”

“I thought, ‘Now her daddy won’t be able to take pictures of her. Now she’s safe, because she doesn’t belong to him anymore. She belongs to me.’”

A lump forms in my throat.

“You belong to me, Aspen. You did the moment you drew the joker at the party, although neither of us fucking knew the gravity of it.” His lips touch down just over my pussy.

My fingers find their way into his hair. It’s soft, and I drag my nails across his scalp before gripping his locks. He lets out a breath when I force his head to tip back, and his eyes laser onto mine. He registers my tears at the same moment I do, because I blink and suddenly his face is blurry.

“Oh, baby.” He rises and drags me against him.

A hug.

Takes a second to register it for what it is.

An all-encompassing hug, his arms around me, his hands hot on my back. My head tucked under his chin. I don’t know the last time I was hugged like this.

I close my eyes, and a foreign feeling washes over me.

For the first time in a long time, I feel safe.

And that scares me more than anything.