Page 5 of Shared Obsession

I finally cave and text him—just a quick hey, it’s Ayla, before I toss my phone back in my bag and pretend I’m not internally spiraling. Best or worst decision? Jury’s out. We keep drinking and laughing, Kyra making me nearly snort tequila out my nose, and Stacie betting I won’t get a reply tonight.

Fast-forward half an hour and too many shots later, I’m outside waiting for my Uber, wearing sweats, a T-shirt, definitely tipsy and barefoot, heels in hand. My phone buzzes.

Hey darling. Just two words, but my heart does a little somersault.

I grin and text back: What’s a mysterious guy like you doing up this late?

He replies almost immediately. Thinking about you. Wondering if you’re still wearing pink.

I bite my lip, heat blooming in my cheeks. Wouldn’t you like to know? Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just wearing glitter and a bad attitude.

Another buzz. That’s dangerously tempting, Ayla. Are you always this much trouble after midnight?

I giggle, leaning against the wall. Only when I’m a little drunk and texting someone who looks like he collects secrets for a living.

He sends a wink emoji. Careful, I might just come collect you.

I shoot back, You’ll have to find me first, shadow man.

I’m still grinning when my Uber finally pulls up. I slide into the back seat, the air cool against my skin. I tell myself I’ll just close my eyes for a second, but next thing I know, the car is stopped—and someone is yanking open my door.

Everything happens in a blur. A stranger’s hand grabs at me, rough and insistent, sliding up my shirt, palming my breast. For a split second, I freeze, the taste of tequila turning bitter in my mouth. Then fear floods my system, sharp and cold. I scream—loud, raw, desperate—kicking out with all I’ve got. My heel catches him hard in the crotch, and he stumbles back, cursing. My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear myself scramble out of the car and into the street, barefoot and wild, panic pushing me all the way to the front door of my building. I fumble the key, hands shaking so hard I nearly drop it, but somehow I get inside. I slam the door and lock every bolt.

I collapse onto my bed, still breathing hard, the adrenaline leaving me shaky and raw. Suddenly, texting Alex isn’t just some reckless game—it feels like a lifeline. I shoot him a message: Hey, what are you up to?

A few seconds later, my phone buzzes with his reply: Taking care of a problem right now, darling.

Alexander

I don’t know what it is about Ayla—maybe it’s the wild, reckless way she laughs, or the haunted look she gets when she thinks no one’s watching—but she’s become a darkness in my veins, a hunger I can’t kill, very quickly, almost scary. I’m obsessed, and the worst part is I know it. I shouldn’t be here, lurking in the shadows near her apartment, watching like a deviant, but I can’t walk away. I tell myself I’m just making sure she’s safe, but that’s a lie. I’m hooked—stalking the night like some villain in a gothic romance, all because she’s out there, alone and defiant and, in my mind, entirely mine, whether she knows it or not. I know it’s wrong. I know I’m crossing lines. I don’t care anymore.

When the Uber finally glides up to the curb, I barely glance at it—just another car in the endless city night. But then the driver gets out, circles to the back, and yanks open the rear door. That’s when I see her. Ayla, crumpled in the back seat, eyes heavy with exhaustion, utterly vulnerable. For a split second, I don’t even register it’s her—then it hits me like a punch to the gut. Ayla. My world tilts, everything else fading out.

The driver reaches for her, hands too rough, sliding up her shirt. Then comes a sound that makes my blood run cold: Ayla’s scream—raw, terrified, echoing down the street. In that instant, something inside me snaps. I see her jolt awake, panic wild in her eyes, and all I can feel is a black, seething rage. My vision tunnels, my fists ball, and I am nothing but instinct and obsession—ready to destroy for her.

She fights back—of course she does, my wild girl—her scream still ringing in my ears as her heel slams into his groin and he crumples, cursing, but the damage is already done. She bolts for her door, and I watch her disappear inside, knowing I’ll never unsee the terror on her face. My blood is boiling, my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear the city around me. All I know is I want to tear the world apart for her, punish anyone who dares lay a finger on what’s mine. Right now, I am every jealous, dangerous, madman in every story she’s ever read—and God help the man who gave me an excuse to finally lose control.

The text she sends barely registers. My hands are trembling—from adrenaline, from fury, from that sick satisfaction that I’m about to cross a line I can’t come back from. For a split second, logic tries to intervene—walk away, Alex. Don’t do this. Don’t go too far. But the image of her fear, her scream, drowns out every shred of reason. I fire off a reply—Taking care of a problem right now, darling—then shove my phone into the small storage compartment under the seat of my bike, snapping it shut. I need both hands for what I’m about to do.

I stalk straight towards the bastard. He’s still doubled over, gasping, trying to gather himself. He doesn’t even see me coming.

I grab him by the collar and yank him upright, slamming him into the side of the car so hard the metal screams. My hands tremble, not with fear, but with something primal and vicious—something new and bottomless. My voice is a snarl, rough and cold, every word dipped in venom. “What the fuck did you think you were doing to her?”

He stammers, mouth moving, words spilling out, “I was just—just helping, I swear—” but I see the truth in his eyes. I see the guilt. I see the predator who thought he could cross the line.

The rage inside me isn’t even human. It’s black and endless, a gaping maw demanding blood. All I want in this moment is to show him what it means to be hunted. My fist connects with his jaw, the crunch reverberating up my arm, a savage satisfaction I want to taste again and again. I hit him harder, knuckles splitting, blood slick on my hands, and I don’t stop. I can’t. His hands come up, feeble and desperate. For a flicker, I hesitate—am I really going to do this? Am I about to ruin my life for her? But the memory of Ayla’s scream, the terror on her face, wipes out every last trace of hesitation. I hit him even harder. It’s not enough.

All I see is Ayla’s face, her body scrambling away, the echo of her fear burning in my skull. I want to tear this man apart for what he tried to do—for daring to put his filthy hands on what is fucking mine.

In that moment, I don’t care about consequences, or the sirens approaching, or anything except the pure, furious joy of violence. The world could collapse around me, and I’d still be here, making him pay, over and over, until someone rips me away. I am rage. I am ruin. And for her, I’d become a monster a thousand times over.

It takes the cops physically dragging me off him—two of them, shouting orders, prying my fists from his bloody shirt. I barely notice the flashing blue and red, or the cuffs snapping around my wrists. The only thing I notice is the limp body of the man who dared to lay a hand on her, and the raw satisfaction of knowing I’d do it all over again to keep her safe.

The cop hauls me upright and shoves me toward the cruiser, his grip bruising my arm. I catch my reflection in the window—blood streaked, wild-eyed, breathing like a caged animal. Adrenaline still surges through my veins, drowning out everything but the steady, echoing thud of my heart.

The cop opens the back door and pauses, squinting at me over his notepad. “Name?” he demands, his tone clipped and official.

I meet his eyes, jaw set, refusing to look away. “Alexander Sterling,” I say, my voice low and unwavering.