Page 37 of Obsession
She doesn’t deny it. Instead, she simply waits me out, tracking my every move.
I focus on the feel of her small thumb rubbing circles over my wrist. “If he had you to himself, he’d want to put his lips on you and bring you to climax with his hands.”
She stops breathing.
“He’d want to feel you fall apart around his dick.”
Those drunk eyes dart to Officer Garcia, but he doesn’t give a shit.
“I won’t allow that.” I tighten my grip on her hand in warning. “No one gets to touch you, Savannah. No one gets to so much as imagine you naked and needy.”
“You can’t slaughter everyone who fantasizes about me.”
“Watch me.”
“I am watching you, and do you know what I see? I see a man who talks a big game but can’t do shit. We’re minutes away from you being chained up and led back to your cell.”
“I thought it was a theoretical question,” I remind her, secretly pleased when her cheeks heat. “I’ll tell you what I would do. I would remove his fingers one by one, and when he’s about to pass out, I’d cut out his tongue and send it to you in a nice little gift box.”
“You truly are a monster.”
“At least I would offer him the mercy of death. Eventually.”
She rears back, but I hold her hand hostage.
“Would you show such mercy, Savannah?”
When her eyes grow glassy with tears, I continue. “Let me rephrase that.Didyou show such mercy?”
15
ROBBIE, AGE 15
“Robbie!” Mom shouted from her bedroom, slurring the words. At some point in the last few years, the prescription drugs didn’t cut it and now she was addicted to stronger drugs and alcohol. Dad was a no-show, as always. Mom was lonely.
“Robbie!”
Dread was a heavy rock in my stomach as I threw off my thin, moth-eaten blanket and stood up from the springy mattress on the floor. What did she want now? More alcohol? Drugs? Maybe she was suffering one of her episodes and wanted to hurl abuse at me like she’d done a lot lately.
“Robbie!” Something crashed in her bedroom.
Scrubbing the sleep from my eyes, I flung open the door and stepped out into the dark hallway. I hadn’t checked the time, but the morning was still far off.
The reek of alcohol hit me first when I creaked open her door and peered inside.
“Robbie…” Mom’s voice was softer. “Come here, sweetheart.”
With my hand on the handle, I hesitated in the doorway. Mom’s smile was far scarier than her anger. There was nothing gentle behind it.
I felt trapped.
“Come here.”
The door opened farther, and I took hesitant steps closer. Mom patted the space beside her on the bed.
An empty bottle of vodka sat on the nightstand, distorting the numbers on the digital clock behind it. A pill bottle lay on its side, the contents spilling out.
The cold floor bit into the bare soles of my feet as I ventured to the bed. I slid in beside her, careful to keep my distance. The thin blanket did little to keep me warm. My T-shirt and tatty boxer shorts didn’t help either. Flurries of snowflakes sailed through the air outside the window. It was peaceful—a stark contrast to how my heart thrashed when Mom snuggled up beside me.
