Brutal Obsession: Chapter 41

Something is wrong. I reach for Grey—he’s reverted back to that in my mind, seemingly overnight—but his side of the bed is cold. There’s a dent in his pillow where his head was, but he’s gone.

Instead of just assuming he went to the bathroom, I sit up. My stomach somersaults. I grab one of his t-shirts and slide his sweatpants over my hips, because if I’m going searching for him, I sure as hell don’t want to run into one of his roommates half-naked.

So… dressing in his clothes seemed like the better option.

I quickly scrub at my teeth with my finger and toothpaste in the hall bathroom, then follow the sounds to the kitchen. I pause on the last step and try to hear what two voices are saying.

“I think she has a stalker,” Greyson says.

My eyebrows shoot up.

“Maybe you’re blowing this a little out of proportion.” Knox, I’d guess. Maybe Miles.

The two brothers have similar tones.

“I’m not. Look.”

I really wish I knew what he was showing him and not me . Especially if I’m the one with a stalker? Really? It’s ridiculous.

I stride into the kitchen. “The only one stalking me is you,” I inform him.

Grey’s gaze lands on me. He meets my eyes, then sweeps down my body. Back up.

Miles leans on the kitchen counter, arms crossed. His attention bounces between the two of us. “Kissed and made up, then?”

I smile tightly and don’t answer.

“Yep,” Grey says. “Can you give us a minute?”

Miles rolls his eyes. He grabs the mug that sat next to his elbow and shuffles out of the room. I step aside to let him pass, still feeling that weird, off sensation. It’s not him, but it’s… maybe it’s being here. In this house.

“A stalker?” I question.

He comes to me and takes my hands, easily pulling me into him. My arms automatically wrap around his waist, and he hugs me tightly. I rest my head on his chest. His heart is going crazy, but outwardly he seems calm. His lips touch the top of my head.

“I’ve realized something,” he says in my hair.

“Please, do share.”

“We’re on the same side.”

Oh.

Oh .

I pull back and meet his gaze again. He seems one hundred percent serious, and I… I don’t know what to do with that. He just decided that we’re on the same side? After the last few months of hell…

“Vi, listen.” He walks me over to the counter and lifts me so I’m sitting on it. He pours me a cup of coffee and adds a pretty decent amount of hazelnut creamer from the fridge. Just the way I like it. When he brings it back and curls my fingers around the mug, he just smiles. “I pay attention.”

“And that’s how you’ve deduced that I have a stalker who isn’t you.”

“Yep.” He inclines his chin. “But let’s be honest with each other. For real.”

I swallow at the lump in my throat. “Okay,” I whisper.

“I’m going to tell my father to fuck off the first chance I get.” His palms land on my thighs, spreading them to step even closer. “I’ll take care of the therapy. It’s… it’s the least I can do for you.”

My eyes are fucking burning. I set aside the coffee and grip his neck with both hands. I don’t know how to convey my gratitude… and shame that he has to offer in the first place.

“You’re going to tell me everything that happened around the accident,” he says. “The hospital, who visited you, the doctors—all of it.”

And then he’ll know about his father coming and forcing me to sign the NDA. It was right after that article came out. I wanted to sue the Devereuxes for personal injury, since Greyson was allowed to walk away so easily. Instead, I was threatened with a countersuit for defamation.

The senator would’ve wanted a whole lot more money than my mom or I had. It could’ve bankrupted us. But instead, he offered me a nice little deal… sign an NDA, drop the suit, and everyone will go their separate ways.

Needless to say, I dropped it and signed the nondisclosure agreement.

Grey knows I signed one, obviously. He’s held that over my head since I got to school. But does he realize how far his father went?

He’s tracing a pattern on my leg, and I realize I haven’t given him an answer. I should tell him to clear the air. I should just tell him in general, even if he already knows.

“I will,” I say on a sigh. “But I’d like to hear your stalker theory first.”

Diverting. Again.

He nods. “Right. I saved this.”

He pulls out his phone and brings something up on the screen. I peer over it, upside down, and catch the all-too-familiar headline that haunted us for months. He swipes, and I realize they must be screenshots.

Smart.

He gets to the end and turns the phone around. I scan the page, and my eyes catch on the second to last paragraph. When I was hurt and angry and scared, I read those words and thought it was a blessing. I also thought, YES, he took away my career. Someone else gives a shit . But now, with suspicion—and a heavy dose of reality—it’s chilling.

Though the world will soon forget Greyson Devereux’s role as the antagonist of Ms. Reece’s life, she has supporters who won’t. The ballet community stands behind her.

“Who are these so-called supporters who won’t forget what you did?” I look up. “I was dancing in Crown Point when I got injured. It was a fluke that I was in Rose Hill at all.”

He presses his lips together.

I’ve connected the dots, though. It means whoever is angry enough about this—whoever was , I should say—is in Crown Point. They have to be. Maybe not one of the dancers, because we’re cutthroat about roles. But in the community maybe?

And how did they hear about my accident that happened hours away?

“CPB is ruthless,” I whisper. “If this person was in it, they’d know my spot would’ve been filled in a minute. Mia sought me out because she’s known me forever and cares about me. That’s the only reason I’m coming back.”

I cover my mouth with my hand.

Obviously, it isn’t Mia. She’s the artistic director with far too much to lose—and my injury doesn’t significantly impact her or the company.

But… is she tied to it?

Could she know who wrote that?

“That article is six months old,” Grey points out. He gently pulls my hand from my face. “Maybe I’m wrong—”

“Someone broke into my room,” I blurt out.

He gives me a weird look. “I know.”

“Before that.” My face heats. “They trashed my room. I had a wall of photos, and they wrote whore across it in paint. Everything was destroyed.”

He freezes. I see the moment it sinks in, because it hits me, too.

This is happening . What started as a simple break-in and the feeling of being watched—that I blamed on Greyson—seems to be exploding.

He pulls me down from the counter. “You and Willow aren’t safe in that apartment,” he declares. He taps a message on his phone, then stows it. “You’re going to get your things. Right now.”

“And…?”

“And move in with me.”

I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

Is he nuts? We literally just made up, and it was rather violent. I’ve still got bruises in a ring around my neck. The cut on my breast is scabbing over slightly. There are more bruises on my wrists, too, from the laces he used to tie me up.

There’s still evidence of our anger and hatred clashing together—and my body has suffered the consequences.

His phone chimes, and I peek over his shoulder again.

“What is he on?” I ask, suspicious.

He just smiles. “Don’t worry, Vi. You and Willow can still be roommates.”

I shake my head and stride away from him. “I need a shower. And my own clothes before class.”

This can’t be happening.

All of it.

Any of it.

I go back into his room and find my bag on his desk. He tossed it there haphazardly last night, not bothered when it knocked everything askew. I rummage through it for the first time. My pointe shoes are there, the ribbons carefully wrapped so they don’t get tangled. I certainly didn’t do it, and a warm, gooey feeling swims through me.

Who are we?

We should be enemies.

We were, until he decided that we weren’t.

I think, in a way, he knew the outcome of last night before he even arrived at the dance studio. As much as he rolls with the punches—sometimes literally—he’s better when he has a plan. Like in hockey, there are plays. A rule book. Sometimes they go off-script, but he shines when he knows where to put his feet.

That’s my interpretation anyway.

His father must’ve given himself away.

Somehow .

I don’t have many clothes. He stashed my underwear in here, too. I grab them and my jeans. In his closet, I find a folded towel and take it with me.

Hopefully there’s shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom—but part of me doesn’t want to count on it. Guys can be heathens about taking care of their skin and hair.

I lock the door and immediately flip on the water to hot. There is a small bottle of conditioner under the sink, and I silently cheer at whoever slept with a smart girl. I strip out of Greyson’s clothes and step under the blast.

A minute or several later, the door opens and closes. My eyes, which had been closed as I massaged shampoo through my hair, fly open.

Then the curtain pulls back, and Grey steps in with me. Naked, of course. His abs are out of this world. I reach out and touch them before I can stop myself, then let my hand fall away. His cock is hard, bobbing between us.

He’s beautiful, and I kind of hate it. His beauty is what lets him get away with almost everything. Maybe anything .

He smirks. “You think a lock can stop me?”

I roll my eyes.

He motions for me to turn around. I do carefully, giving him my back. Water pounds into my chest. His fingers massaging my temples is too good. I lean into his hands. He lets it go on for another few minutes—probably longer than my hair needs—then gently turns me around. I face him again and keep eye contact as I step back under the water.

Once the soap is out, we trade places. I squirt conditioner into my palm and run it through the strands. He grabs the shampoo and does his own hair, until I stop him. I let out a tsk and inch closer.

We’re doing this.

I reach up and slide my hands into his hair. He watches me carefully. I drag my nails lightly against his scalp, and he hums.

“I might get used to this,” he murmurs.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“I like to shower alone,” I retort. I’m already getting cold from being out of the water. Jack was a water hog. I put a quick end to showering with him.

“You thinking about another guy when I’m right here?” His eyes are dark.

“No,” I lie.

He scoffs and tips his head back, rinsing it without comment.

For a moment, I think that’s the end of it. He’ll get pissed and leave—which should’ve been my end goal.

But then he guides me back under the hot spray. He reaches over me and turns the shower head, aiming it at the wall. His hands slide down my sides, over my hips, my ass. Then he lifts me without warning, slamming me against the now-warm tile.

He thinks of everything .

I wrap my legs around his hips.

“You think of anyone else other than me, and I’ve got no choice but to eradicate them.” He raises an eyebrow. “Best decision I made was blocking Jack’s number from your phone.”

I stare at him. “Are you—”

He thrusts inside me, cutting off my ability to speak. “Am I possessive?” He ducks forward and kisses my throat. “Am I not going to let anything—or anyone—come between us?” His teeth graze my skin, followed by his tongue. “Am I serious ?”

I tilt my head, giving him more access. “Any of those.”

“The answer is yes.” He runs his nose up my throat. “To all of the above.”

I snort. “Of course I’m dating a psychopath.”

He goes still.

Hell, I go still. Open mouth, insert foot. “We, um, I didn’t mean—”

“Dating is a bit casual,” he finally says.

“Casual? Dating is a big step.” My muscles automatically clench around his cock, still buried inside me.

He smirks. “Let’s see… You’re never getting away from me. What do we call that? Certainly not dating .” His hand cups my jaw, then slides down. Over my breast, down my stomach. He pauses there. “You’re on birth control.”

My jaw drops. “You’re just now thinking about that?”

He shrugs. “I saw the pills in your bathroom once. But I’m not worried.”

“Why not?”

“If you get pregnant, that’s just another thing keeping us together.”

I shove him—it doesn’t do much, but it’s the thought that counts. “If I get pregnant, my dance career goes up in flames. So, no thanks.”

He chuckles. “Okay, okay. Not now, but someday.”

I eye him. Maybe not. He can’t win every argument.

“Now…” He resumes moving, sliding out of me almost all the way then thrusting back in. His hand is on my ass, going between my cheeks. His finger pushes into my back entrance.

I gasp.

“Did you like last night, Violent?” He kisses my throat. “Did you like coming with me and a toy inside you?”

He pushes his finger deeper, and I squirm against him.

“One day I’ll let you in on my biggest fantasy,” he adds.

I’m panting by the time he finally picks up the pace. I lean forward and kiss him again, keeping my lips on his. Somehow, I come like that. As he fucks me with his cock and finger-fucks my ass. My breasts slide against his chest.

Everything tenses as I come.

He follows a moment later, groaning and spilling into me.

He withdraws slowly, holding my hips until my toes find purchase on the wet floor. I’ve still got conditioner in my hair. The room is full of steam, so thick it’s like a damn sauna.

The door swings open. “Hurry the fuck up,” one of the guys says.

Grey growls, and the door slams before he can respond.

I rinse my hair, and he takes the opportunity to squirt bodywash into his hands. He takes his time running his sudsy hands up and down my body, touching everywhere. He cups between my legs, and I automatically widen my stance.

“Eager for more, Violent?”

I hum. So what if I am?

“I think I’m addicted to you.” I slick the water out of my eyes and rotate, rinsing away the soap.

“Here’s a secret.” He winds his arms around me, pulling me against his chest. “I’m addicted to you, too.”