Page 5 of Unapologetic Obsession
His large hand wrapped around my waist to pull me closer until I was practically sitting on his lap. The hold was rigid, as if he feared I’d disappear into thin air. The intimacy should’ve alarmed me, but I couldn’t find it in me to care. I was finally warm and fed. Nothing else seemed to matter.
Instead, I was more concerned about my pungent odor. With our proximity, there was no way for him to miss it. My only hope was that he had a condition where he didn’t have a sense of smell.
“Don’t fall asleep,” he ordered when I sank farther into his arms. My eyes grew heavy the more he filled my belly with food. “You might have a concussion.”
Concussion?
I didn’t know the word. Instead of trying to remember it, I focused on staying upright. Unlike the stench coming from me, his smell was intoxicating. I grabbed on to it like a lifeline to stay alert. I inhaled it hungrily, hoping it’d distract me from the oncoming slumber.
It had the opposite effect.
The heady cologne must have been doused in mind-altering substances. It acted like a hallucinogen when combined with the comfort of his warm arms. It made me give in, and I sighed contentedly, hoping against hope this reprieve wasn’t a cruel joke.
“Open your eyes,” he said huskily when my eyes drooped.
The voice came out of nowhere, and I glanced at him. My head reeled back, startled at how he was watching me. The intensity behind his blue eyes was mesmerizing.
Why was he looking at me that way?
I was nobody. I reeked of garbage, quite literally, since I had been sleeping behind a dumpster with rats.
He looked expensive and smelled so good that it made me dizzy. Yet, he looked at me like I was the prize to be won—like I was already his.
I didn’t understand. Why did he want to feed me, let alone hold me? Everything about me was filthy. I stared at his luxurious shoes and realized my dirty feet had soiled the expensive flooring. Swiftly, I withdrew my feet, tucking them under the bench.
“We’ll get you cleaned up once you finish eating,” he informed me, voice just as rough and certain as before. It gripped my soul and coiled around my spine. Similar to his features, it was angelic with cruel edges—like a fallen angel.
I must be in heaven, then. Angels and an abundance of food only existed there. Relief flooded me at the thought of not returning to the cruel streets. There were plenty of opportunities to die behind that lonely dumpster, but my survival instincts never faltered. Something innate told me I had to stay alive even when there was nothing worth living for, and tonight was my prize for staying alive.
“I’m Rose,” I suddenly declared.
He paused, as did my food supply. Those were the first words I had uttered to him. Perhaps my voice broke the trance, and it dawned on him that he was hand-feeding a homeless person.
“What?” he asked as if he had misheard me.
Over the last few days, I had gathered that I was soft-spoken. It didn’t come as a surprise that he had a hard time hearing me. I cleared my throat.
“My name is Rose,” I tried again, speaking louder this time. When he frowned, I reverted to my innately hushed tone and added, “Though, I can’t remember my last name.”
Strong hands gripped my nape, forcing me to meet his gaze. The darkness in his blue eyes clashed with confusion. “What do you mean you can’t remember your last name?” he barked.
I flinched at the hostility over a simple introduction. “I-I woke up in an alley one day. I had no idea how I got there and couldn’t remember anything other than my first name.”
He grabbed my cheeks, his gloomy eyes searching mine and trying to dissect the truth. I suppose my story sounded fictional to others.
“What’s your name?” I garbled through my duck lips, courtesy of his tight grip.
For several moments, he said nothing, digesting the monumental information. A fleeting expression of something crossed his face once he processed it, something calculative.
He was impossible to read, but I couldn’t shake the feeling he was forming the first drafts of a loose plan. Like he was cooking up something and considering the logistics.
But how would my memory loss benefit him?
He finally let go and picked up the fork. After I had given up on an introduction, he said, “I’m Caledon Maxwell. But call me Caden.”
Chapter
Three
