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Unless she keeps telling me we can’t be together.
Unless she repeats the words that made me flip in the garage.
We were flirting. We were close. For the first time in my life, I was willing to fight my daughter for the woman I wanted.
Then Leighton said those words. Words that mean she’ll move and never think of me again.
Her daisies and sunshine would be a distant memory.
Someone else would recognize Leigh for the treasure she is.
Another man would put his filthy hands on her. Marry her. Put babies inside the womb that belongs to me.
Unacceptable.
My blood boils all over again. The vein in my forehead—the one that alerts me the beast is about to claw out of its cage—thumps.
I should’ve realized sooner. I couldn’t allow Leighton to go after her dreams in New York. Not without me.
Ideas like shackling her to a bed and fucking the words “We can’t do this” out of her come to mind. Have come to mind for a while. The things I put in my Malibu home could attest to that.
I would’ve done it in our Santa Barbara home. It would’ve been less complicated. I wouldn’t have had to drug Leighton for that.
Except Rylan wouldn’t have murdered her first.
My heart clenches at the notion.
Worrying about Leighton doesn’t make me any less pissed, though. She was going to break things off with me.
Unacceptable.
My need to protect her and punish her mix in my head. The toxic concoction bleeds into my pores, feeding the monster inside me. The madman whose love for Leighton is sick and twisted. I’m not Dr. Kingston when he takes over.
I’m Marcus. The man who’s made of carnal desires. The creature who’d stick a needle in her throat and take her from everything and everyone to show her who she belongs to.
Letting him take over while I’m speeding through the highway is dangerous. I breathe. Focus on the road. On the task at hand.
I revisit the session I had with my therapist, Dr. Miranda Hatchett in my head, two weeks ago. This’ll help tame the beast. Has to.
“You’ve clearly developed an attachment for this young woman.” Dr. Hatchett lifted her gaze from her notebook to me. “Feelings, as well.”
Her words and gestures were void of judgment. As always.
Her graying hair was pulled tight and her makeup flawless. Her body language suggested she was calm and attentive. Legs and arms uncrossed, features relaxed.
I’d been visiting her as a standard practice ever since I’d started seeing my own patients. During our sessions, I’d been upfront. Never hid a thing from her.
Other than Rylan’s secrets, of course.
“Feelings. Ha.” I crossed a knee over my thigh. Defensive. Waiting for her to attack my character. It never came. “I love her. Have loved her since she was seventeen.”
I cocked an eyebrow, expecting judgment. Knowing she’d hate me as much as I hated my own damn self.
Tenderness flashed in Dr. Hatchett’s green eyes. Compassion appeared behind her horn-rimmed glasses. No judgment. No loathing.
None.
“Marcus.” She placed her notebook on the modern brass end table beside her. “Let’s not confuse obsession and attachment with love.”
