Page 49 of Quiet Obsession
I reel in my temper, breathing in and out through my nose as I hand Noah a steaming cup of coffee, my grip only a touch tighter than it should be.
He’ll be good for her. He has his shit together, knows what he wants, and she’s comfortable around him.
Shespeaksto him.
Not me. I’m toxic, unhinged, paranoid, and aggressive. I don’t get to have nice things because I break them into pieces.
And I already broke her once.
I park my hip at the counter, disobeying my every instinct. “Whatever you do, don’t hurt her, Noah, because it’s not just Hyde you’ll have to watch out for.”
Being a good boy is hard fucking work.
“I’ve seen you watching her, Creed.” He savors the first sip of coffee before speaking again. “You won’t just quit. You’re not made that way. Ultimately, it’ll be her decision. But right now?” His eyes lift to mine. “She has no idea who she wants.”
“It’ll also be Hyde’s decision to castrate us both for going after his little sister.”
“The little sister we didn’t know existed until she almost died. Everything he’s doing since is from pure guilt.” He takes a long sip, watching me over the rim. “Something tells me pissing him off might be worth it this time. And...” An amused smirk curls his lips, “...pissing him off never bothered us before, right?”
He’s not wrong.
I don’t say anything as I finish my coffee and sling my gym bag over my shoulder. Noah throws himself back onto the couch, one arm tucked under his head. Lazy fucker.
I don’t ask if he wants to hit the gym. I’ve tried before, but he prefers working out after classes, so I leave him be, opting for different company.
Instead of entering the elevator, I head down the hall to room 529. Noah’s room. The door’s unlocked, bedside lamp on, and Millie’s curled into a ball in the middle of the spacious bed.
Her blonde hair’s braided, lips pursed, eyelashes casting long shadows over her cheekbones... so fucking gorgeous.
Noah was right. There’s no way I’d step aside and let him have her. I should. IknowI should, but as twisted as it is, despite her silence stirring the worst parts of my character, she also calms my psyche faster than anything else.
I’m already deep down a rabbit hole with her. Have been for almost a year and I’d be lying if I pretended my fascination with Millie started and ended with how beautiful she is.
The girl draws me more than fire attracts moths.
When people don’t talk, you adapt. You learn to observe and deduce. Since Millie walked into my life, conscious, pink-cheeked, wide-eyed, I’ve kind of stalked her every move.
At first, I was trying to figure out everything she wasn’t saying, but compulsive watching has grown beyond curiosity and enforced the quiet obsession that started at her hospital bed. I have her facial expressions down to aT. I know which smiles are genuine, which are fake, which are designed to divert attention from things she already accidentally given away without speaking.
She doesn’t eat processed fruit. It’s either their natural form or juiced. No jams, blueberry muffins, or apple pies. She takes her coffee stronger than I do, barely any milk, but too much sugar, like she’s not sweet enough already.
She tries not to react to Dash’s dumb jokes. Shereallytries, but her mouth always twitches before she breaks into a smile, and that half-second of resistance makes me wish I was funny.
Her favorite color is dusty pink. I’ve known that even before she arrived here, thanks to all the duty pink sweaters Hyde ordered and sent her way.
Her lips move when she reads. She often absentmindedly doodles with her fingers over her thighs, hips or other flat surfaces, and when she’s nervous, she worries the crease of her thumb with her nails.
She never does that when Noah’s around.
The mattress dips under my weight as I sit on the edge of his bed. Millie stirs, her lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks. Her breath catches and lips part when she looks at me. I expected a furrow in her brows, surprise, shyness, maybe anger, but what I get is different. Her expression is open, pupils blown, gaze unfocused like she’s caught in the throes of her dream.
And I’d bet my right arm that it was dirty.
She doesn’t speak, but her body gives her away, legs shifting beneath the blanket, curling higher, thighs pressing together.
“That must’ve been one hell of a dream.”
I drag my gaze over her flushed skin and pulse flying at the base of her throat. Fuck. Desire curls low in my spine and my mind dives into the gutter as I imagine sliding my hand between her legs, finding the heat she’s desperately trying to hide, and taking care of her ache with my fingers.
