Page 119 of Devious Obsession
I go to a practice room, my ID unlocking it with a soft click. I try to close him out. Idoclose 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 itcouldbe.
“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 himchangingor becominggood—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.
