My obsession with her runs too deep. So deep, in fact, that I almost forgot the one thing that makes my skin crawl and rage pour from me uncontrollably.
Human touch.
She’s touched me here and there. A brush of the hand or a shove when I’ve been overbearing, and I’ve been able to swallow it down, deal with it because it’s my sweet fawn who’s touching me, but I haven’t been able to see through my obsession with her to see just how much of an issue my aversion to touch is when it comes to her.
Her fists on my back had nausea rolling in my stomach and the urge to scrape my knife along my scarred flesh chomping at the edges of my vision. It took everything I had not to drop her on her ass and get the fuck out of there, but I couldn’t. The war between my affection for her and my hatred for touch tears me apart from the inside out.
I pace back and forth in the living room, the blade of my knife sliding roughly across my scarred flesh. Usually, this would keep my demons at bay, bury them deep enough that the people around me can’t see them, but not today. Because my demons are at war with my obsession. The two are fighting to the death and I have no idea which of the two will come out on top.
Light footsteps drag my attention away from the scrapes the blade has made to find Clara watching me closely with her brows pinched together. I’ve never done this in front of her, but where I expect to see disgust, all I see is intrigue.
She’s dressed in the outfit I picked out for her, and for some reason that makes something deep inside me rumble with pleasure. I never would have pegged myself for wanting to be in control of things like clothing, but then again, I never pegged myself for being interested in more than a quick fuck to relieve the pressure in my balls. And yet here we are.
Her bottom lip disappears between her teeth, but she doesn’t move closer. Perhaps she realizes just how much danger she’s in every time we’re in the same room.
“Are you ready?” I force through a painfully clenched jaw.
She nods once, slipping her keys into her back pocket along with a bank card. If I were able to see through the red in my vision, I would tell her she won’t need either of those things, but instead, I nod toward the door and wait for her to lead the way. I don’t trust her not to run. No matter how intrigued she is by my habit, I’ve repeatedly overstepped the bounds of our relationship, which in her mind is nothing, and in mine is everything.
I shove my knife back into its holder in the back of my jeans and follow after her. I guess the perk of her being a flight risk is watching her perky ass sway with every step. There are definitely worse sights.
She doesn’t say a word as we make our way down the stairs and onto the street. She’ll soon realize that moving forward, she is to wait inside the door until I can make sure the street is safe, but we’re not there yet.
You’ll never be there if you can’t get a handle on your issues with touch, a voice at the back of my mind reminds me. They’re issues that stem from years of torture. How am I just meant to get over them? How can I possibly accept her touch when all I’ve ever known is pain?
I scan the street as we cross it, her following my lead despite walking ahead of me. Her eyes dart around, looking for someone who may or may not be lurking in the shadows. I’m used to her doing this, but normally she’s looking for me. Normally she’s looking for the shadow she can’t see.
“This is your car?” she asks, her brows raised almost to her hairline.
I nod. “You know much about old cars?” I open the passenger side door for her, quickly looking over the strangers walking along the busy street. Each one could be a threat, and my skin crawls with the need to protect my fawn. To make sure no one can ever harm her.
“Yeah, my father used to have an Impala just like this.” She brushes her palms along the leather seat, but her eyes are dark, haunted almost.
I hate it when she looks sad. But this is worse. The mixture of fear and sadness is almost enough to make me reach for her. But I can’t. I’m too amped up. Too twitchy from our last touch.
I watch her for another beat before jogging around to my side of the car and slipping in beside her. There’s a lot I don’t know about my little fawn, but not for long. One way or another, I’m going to find out everything there is to know about Clara Michaels.
