Brutal Obsession: Chapter 17

The gym on campus is in the basement of one of the residence halls. After signing in, I go quietly down the stairs and into the dark room. There’s a wall of mirrors, exercise machines, weights.

It’s as familiar as it is foreign.

I bypass the weights and go to the elliptical. In theory, this should be easier on my leg. Less impact. I say a quick thank you to my body that nine times out of ten, I land jumps on my right leg. It was always stronger, holding me upright through all the grueling exercises and rehearsals.

Dancing again still seems like a dream. I consider that as I climb onto the machine and turn it on. I program my height and weight, then set it to a weight-loss program. It climbs in resistance quickly. Within five minutes, I’m drenched in sweat.

I tear off my sweatshirt and drape it across the machine beside me. My t-shirt sticks to my skin, and my lungs sear with how little exertion I’ve put them through in so long. I’m ready to quit immediately, but I don’t. I keep pushing until my thighs tremble and I’m heaving so hard I might puke.

The time ticks down, and I stumble off the machine. I stand in the middle of the room, trying to regain my breath, then gulp water from the fountain. The nausea eases slightly, and when I straighten, I start. A person stands in the shadows of the alcove entrance. I back away and bump into the mirrors, until they step into the light.

Greyson. In black slacks and white collared shirt, a black puffer jacket unzipped over it. I tilt my head, wondering why he’s standing in a random basement gym. Dressed like that.

Then I realize what I stupidly texted him earlier.

A dare to find me.

“How did you know where I was?”

He smirks and takes another step toward me. “Lucky guess.”

I shiver, but he doesn’t stop. He comes right up next to me and leans in. His tongue flicks out at my temple, no doubt tasting my sweat. Goosebumps rise on my arms.

“Here’s the thing,” he says quietly. “I liked finding you—but it was too easy.”

“Too easy,” I repeat, my voice faint. “You found me in the basement of a dorm I don’t live in…”

“You’re going to run.” His arms rise, caging me in. The opposite of his orders. “Run and don’t let me catch you. Because wherever I do catch you, I’m going to tear your leggings down and fuck you until I come inside your cunt. If it’s in public, if it’s in front of your best friend, or your fucking dance team, or your precious ex—I don’t give a shit.”

My mouth gapes open. “I don’t—”

“You want this to stop, and you say stop . Anything other than that word, I don’t care. If I catch you, I’m fucking you.” He trails a finger down my chest, between my breasts. “How much you fight determines if you get to come or not. But understand this, Violet. I’m always going to be the monster hunting you down. I’m always going to be right behind you wherever you go.”

Oh, great.

“And if I don’t?” I lift my chin. “If I just stay?”

The finger he ran down my chest now hooks the bottom hem of my shirt. He balls it into a fist and pulls me closer. His gaze turns to ice. “You can chance it…”

My body clenches, and my mind immediately goes to the video he has. The fucking blackmail. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t even hint, but I’m not an idiot. I have a good imagination, too. There are other ways he could get back at me.

This shouldn’t sound like something I’d be into, but my heart racing belies my nerves. The fact that I don’t just scream stop right now and end it means I’ve officially lost my mind.

Running seems like the better choice. He knows it and I know it.

He steps back, dropping his arms, and I bolt. It’s a split-second decision. Fight or flight. Run or… something worse. No fucking way is that video getting out .

I leave my sweatshirt behind and dash up the stairs, bursting through the doors. I take half a second to choose a direction, even with the girl at the desk yelling after me about my student ID. His threat of fucking me wherever he catches me rings in my ears. I can’t stick to public roads—not when he’s bound to be eager to hunt me down.

The woods.

I glance behind me and see him striding out the door. Not in a hurry. Not at all perturbed. He looks every inch the composed predator, and I’m turning into the scared prey. He says something to the girl at the desk, and she hands him my ID. His lips keep moving, the smile in place, but the glass blocks me from hearing the lies he tells her.

His gaze shifts to me, and I gasp at how hot it is. If it had any weight, I’d combust on the spot. But it also holds more malice than I expected, and that forces me to move.

I burst into a sprint, heading away from campus. I don’t want him to catch me, but perhaps I can lose him on one of the many trails that winds through the park a block away. It’s parallel to my neighborhood, so if I get far enough, I can cut across and lock him out of my apartment.

My breath comes in ragged gasps by the time I get to the trail head. It’s nothing more than a break in a two-post fence line, but the wide, wood chip path is easy to spot. Behind me, my predator has picked up his pace. His footsteps drum steadily against the pavement—and then the noise dampens. He’s reached the trail.

I’m swallowed by the forest, where the air is colder. It’s lit intermittently by glass lamps on wrought-iron posts. They give off just enough of a glow to illuminate a small circle around each one. It doesn’t touch the pockets of darkness in between.

My fear spikes, adrenaline bleeding in with it.

I should be scared—I know what Greyson is capable of. My stride lengthens, but I won’t win this race. He’s in shape. Tall. Strong.

He draws closer. Relentlessly closer. Thump, thump, thump .

I can’t tell if that’s my heartbeat in my ears or his footsteps.

All I know is that this is worse than walking into the locker room, because I don’t know if he’s serious. I don’t know which version of him I’m going to get when he catches me.

I veer off the path, crashing between two shrubs. The long branches snatch at my clothes and hair, and fallen twigs snap under my sneakers. I push myself faster, weaving between trees. If I can’t outpace him, I might be able to outmaneuver him.

But that proves false, too. He tackles me out of nowhere, and we crash to the ground. My hands slide in the dirt and pine needles, my teeth clack with the force of the fall. I dig my nails in, trying to get purchase, but he grips the back of my head and forces my head down. My cheek rubs the dirt. The earthy scent fills my nose.

I scramble, still trying to break free, when something heavy presses into my lower back.

I let out a strangled whimper.

He yanks my leggings down. I’m slick with sweat, collecting pieces of leaves and needles as I squirm on the ground. He pins my legs together, and the sound of his zipper going down is my undoing.

He’s going to fuck my ass .

I let out a shriek, doing my best to try and twist around. He grunts, and his fingers dig into my hair. He lifts my head and slams it back down.

Stars burst in front of my vision, sparking in the darkness. The noise in my throat dies to a small cry, and my chest heaves. Simultaneously, I’m surprised by the violence—and not. Heat rushes through me, fire pooling under my skin and between my legs.

I can say stop .

I shift, my mouth opening and closing. I don’t want to say it—not yet. I’m running purely on adrenaline and instinct.

He runs his finger through my wetness, shocking me into silence. His throaty chuckle is the only warning before he grips my hips, pulling them up slightly, and slams into me. Not my ass—thank god . His thighs bracket mine, keeping my legs pinned together.

The friction of him sliding into me is too much, and I moan. Fucking hell, I shouldn’t want this. I push up, but he collects my wrists and pins them behind me. He torques one of my arms up, and I fold back into the ground. Pain travels up my arm, pulsing into my shoulder.

But then he moves faster. He hits a spot deep inside me, drilling into it like a wild animal.

That’s what we’re reduced to—animals fucking in the forest.

I pitch myself to the side, throwing him off balance, and get free long enough to burst up. My leggings around my knees don’t give me much time to move, and Greyson is on me in a flash.

His fingers tangle in my hair, and he rips my head back. I crash into his chest, and he walks me forward. Into a tree. The rough bark scratches my cheek, my throat, my chest. And then he yanks my hips back again, and I grip the trunk to keep from falling over. My skin burns.

I close my eyes as pleasure and pain spark and tangle together, until I can’t tell which is which. He grunts, not bothering to touch my clit or try to get me off. My orgasm is building slowly with every thrust of his cock against my G-spot, but it isn’t enough to tip me over the edge.

He pounds into me with renewed energy, and stills all the way inside me. He groans and leans forward. His forehead touches my shoulder.

Without speaking, he pulls out and steps back.

Immediately, I feel the wetness between my legs. He came in me without a condom.

Again .

I say a quick thank you to my mother, who forced me to start taking birth control when I turned seventeen. She didn’t want any grandchildren. Said I was still a child myself, and she’d end up doing all the raising.

Greyson’s knuckles ghost along my chin when I finally push myself upright. He’s lost the malice and anger in his expression, so much so that I want to ask him what tonight means to him. It doesn’t feel like it has a lot to do with me.

Maybe only a little.

He yanks my leggings up, snapping the waistband into place, and leans forward. I don’t expect him to kiss me, but he does. His lips touch mine softly, briefly, before he pulls back.

A silent thank you? Does he even know how that works? My bet would be on no. The rich boy has probably never uttered those words—or please —in his life. Because of his personality, for one, and also because he’s a dick.

I guess those two might be the same thing.

“Do you get it?” He brushes his thumbs along my hips, just above the waistband of my pants. “Do you understand better now?”

Yes, I think I do. The anger inside him needs an outlet.

My teeth are chattering. His eyes narrow, and it only seems to register with him now that it’s the middle of fucking January. He grabs his jacket from the ground and guides my arms through the sleeves. He takes care zipping it up, lingering between my breasts. He must’ve shed it beforehand. An earthy smell, plus a spice that I’ve been associating with Greyson, surrounds me. And warmth . Here I was, racing through the woods in a sweat-dampened t-shirt and leggings, like a dumbass.

Being around Greyson inspires dumb decisions.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

I eye his arms in his dress shirt. The muscles bulge against the white fabric. I resist the urge to reach out and touch him.

He grunts. His one hand stays pressed between my shoulder blades, and he walks me out of the woods. I let him forcefully guide me all the way to the corner of my street, and then I shake him off.

“I’m fine from here.”

He narrows his eyes, then nods. “Go on, then.”

I pull the zipper down to give him the jacket back, but he stops me. A clear sign that he wants me to keep it on, at least for now.

I shake my head slightly and walk away from him.

“Oh, and Violet?”

I glance back.

“Don’t even think about making yourself come.”

My face flames, and I swallow sharply. I don’t answer, turning and hurrying away. Putting more and more distance between us, hoping that I’ll finally be able to breathe with every step I take.

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.

His gaze stays on me all the way to my apartment.

Once I’m inside, I lose it. A lump forms in my throat, and my eyes flood with tears. An ugly sob tears out, breaking the silence.

I press the back of my hand to my mouth to try and stem the flow of sound, but it’s useless. My leg is on fire, pain lancing up from my shin through to my hip. I massage my thigh hopelessly and make my way to my room.

Willow’s door is shut, the light off.

It’s late—I made up an excuse about studying at the library and to not wait up, so she should be sleeping. I can lie and tell myself I don’t know what I’m doing, or why. But I’m worried that she’s going to try and talk me out of getting back into dancing shape.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair is an absolute mess. My clothes, too. And Greyson has my student ID. I curse, then light up and pat down his pockets. Sure enough, my ID is safely tucked away in the left one.

I peel off his jacket and set it on the back of my desk chair. My phone is still on my charger on my nightstand, because I didn’t want Willow to wake up and track my location.

See? Total guilty person behavior.

I exhale and turn on the shower. There’s smudges of dirt on my arms, and it’s all over my clothes. The bed of pine needles and leaves we rolled around in seem to have all come home with me, too.

It’s a slow process to remove my clothing. Another zing of pain travels up my left leg when I try to balance on it, so I lean most of my weight on the counter to peel off my leggings. I touch my clit tentatively and gasp at the sensation. He didn’t get me off—didn’t want to, from the sound of it.

I consider continuing, taking myself there… but then his warning sounds in my head. And as painful as it is, I pull my hand away. I leave myself breathless and horny. Then I get in the shower and try to erase what happened tonight.