Page 52 of Shared Obsession

Without warning, I break from Dean’s side and make a beeline for Nathan’s table, feeling brave again. “Ayla!” Dean hisses, catching my arm. “Come on—”

But I yank free.

“What are you doing? We’re just supposed to get his attention from a distance,” Dean warns, his voice tense.

“Fuck that,” I whisper, flashing him a wicked grin. “I want to play. He won’t do a damn thing in front of his buddies, and you know it. He's a fucking coward.”

I square my shoulders, hips swaying, and saunter right up to the table, letting every man there get an eyeful. “Hey, boys.” My voice is low, dripping with false sweetness. Good to know I haven’t forgotten my skills. All the men look up, and I catch a few of them staring at my scars, but when Nathan’s eyes meet mine, a small, venomous smile curls across my lips. “Miss me, honey?”

I slide into the booth beside him, Dean slipping in on my other side. Nathan’s face is a mask of rage and confusion, trying to keep his good-guy act together in front of his friends and colleagues. I lean in, giggling—too loud, too manic, but with every laugh, I can see the panic flicker deeper in his eyes. “Aww, Nathan, cat got your tongue, babe?”

I trail a finger up his thigh, just one nail, slow and deliberate. “I know you do.” I wink, smirking, daring him to break character. Then I turn to Dean, my voice a purr. “Come on, baby, let’s go.”

We slide out of the booth, leaving Nathan gaping. “Where the fuck are you going?” he growls, barely keeping his voice civil for the table. He’s desperate to keep up appearances, but I can see the storm brewing beneath the surface.

I glance back over my shoulder, giving him my best come-and-get-me smile. “I guess you’ll just have to find out.”

We weave through the club toward the back, Dean close at my side, my pulse pounding with adrenaline, every step calculated. I look back one last time, and sure enough, Nathan is following—just as planned. Poor bastard has no idea this is the last night he’ll be breathing.

Dean

We weave through the crowd, my senses on overdrive, hyperaware of Nathan trailing not far behind us. Every nerve in my body is buzzing, adrenaline humming beneath my skin. Holy shit, I thought I was going to blow a fuse when Ayla flashed the bartender her tits, but damn—she just used her power to get exactly what she wanted. And it was hot as hell. I watch her, the way she moves, the confidence in her stride—she heard the mission and became a force of nature, pure fucking fire. If she’s scared, she doesn’t show it. Not even a bit.

We reach the back door, the air thick with nerves and the scent of alley garbage, every sense dialed up to eleven. Alex and Zayn are already there, bathed in the harsh glow of a flickering security light, both of them tense, eyes scanning the alley and the shadowy corners around us. Ayla and I flatten ourselves against the wall, hearts pounding so loud it’s a wonder Nathan can’t hear us through the brick. The door bursts open with a crash, and Nathan barrels out, rage etched across every hard line of his face. “Where are you, you fucking bitch!” he shouts, his voice echoing off the concrete.

“Big fucking mistake,” Zayn growls, and before Nathan can react, Zayn is on him—arms like steel, one fist in Nathan’s hair, the other slamming a chloroform-soaked rag over his nose and mouth. Nathan thrashes, wild and desperate, his fists swinging, boots kicking up gravel, but Zayn holds tight, his jaw clenched, eyes blazing with vengeance. Alex moves in, helping pin Nathan to the ground, their movements practiced and ruthless. It doesn’t take long; Nathan goes slack, limp in Zayn’s grip, his struggles fading to nothing. Alex and Zayn waste no time—flipping him over, zipping his wrists behind his back, then binding his ankles tight with zip ties, every motion efficient and merciless.

I dig through Nathan’s pockets, pulse racing, sweat slick on my palms, and pull out his phone. The screen is still lit up from his last text. I type out a message to Charles:

911. Clubhouse now. My thumb hovers a second, then I hit send, the gravity of this moment settling in my chest. Zayn drags Nathan across the gravel to the Jeep and throws him in the back with zero care, muttering, “Piece of fucking garbage.” The slam of the hatch is satisfying—a punctuation on the night. Almost immediately, Nathan’s phone buzzes with Charles’s reply:

Be there in 30.

A grin breaks across my face, cold and sharp, adrenaline still surging. “Let’s go,” I say, my voice more dangerous than I’ve ever heard it. “Charles is on his way.”

Zayn and Ayla climb into the Jeep with Nathan’s unconscious body, while Alex and I lead on our bikes. We tear down the highway, the wind rough and wild against my clothes. My pulse pounds, my thoughts spinning with what comes next. I think about Ayla in that club—she’s like a fucking goddess, every bit of pain and trauma forged into something lethal, something unstoppable. Tonight, she’s not just surviving—she’s about to become someone’s reckoning, and I can’t fucking wait. We pull up to the back of the so-called castle—really, just a house of horrors, the place where her nightmares began. My heart pounds as I climb off my bike, the air thick with anticipation and the metallic taste of vengeance. Alex and I move toward the Jeep just as Zayn hauls Nathan out, slung limp over his shoulder like dead weight. Ayla steps out too, her eyes dark and unreadable, her jaw set in grim determination.

We don’t waste a second. Zayn lugs Nathan’s limp, zip-tied body down the basement stairs, each heavy bootfall echoing through the halls like a countdown to reckoning. The air in the house buzzes—electric and deadly, sharp with the metallic scent of sweat, fear, and resolve. Alex and I wait in the foyer, guns holstered but ready, every sense on high alert. I check the street through the cracked blinds, counting heartbeats. The world outside is silent, a hush that feels like the universe itself is holding its breath.

Minutes crawl by, tension mounting, until Charles’s luxury sedan pulls up to the curb—right on time, just like Dean predicted. He walks in, suit wrinkled, tie askew, head down as he mutters, “Nathan, what’s going o—”

He doesn’t get another word out. I’m on him in a blink, a chloroform-soaked rag clamped over his mouth and nose before he can even think to fight. Charles thrashes, wild and desperate, but I hold him until the chemical hits—he sways, goes slack, and collapses in my arms. Fury blazes up in me, white-hot, and I can’t help myself: I drop him and kick his body, once, twice, three times, each blow a promise of what’s to come. Alex catches my arm, his voice low and commanding. “Save it. We’ve got time for that later. Let’s get him downstairs.”

He takes over, dragging Charles’s dead weight down the basement steps to join Nathan. The house is quiet except for the thud of bodies, the rasp of breath, the distant hum of the city outside. I turn, pulling Ayla into my arms, needing to feel she’s real, alive, here. She’s trembling—shaking with adrenaline, her eyes wide and wild, pupils blown so huge her irises are nearly black, her breath coming in ragged bursts.

I cradle her face, awe and pride tangled in my voice. “Holy shit, that was fucking incredible.”

Ayla meets my gaze, and for the first time since all this began, there’s a slow, dangerous grin spreading across her lips—a look that says she’s ready to be judge, jury, and executioner. “I’m just getting started,” she whispers, her voice razor-sharp. I lean in, kissing her with all the fire and relief and promise I have left.

She pulls back, her smile wicked and feral. “Show time.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Alexander

Zayn and I work in grim silence, securing Charles and Nathan to the heavy wooden chairs we dragged to the center of the basement. The chain bolted to the floor gleams in the harsh overhead bulb—just one more piece of evidence of what they did to Ayla, what this house has seen. We place them on either side of the chain, facing each other like condemned men awaiting judgment. Their wrists and ankles are locked tight in layers of zip ties and thick rope—enough to hold even the strongest man. I check every knot, every loop, making sure they won’t wriggle free. The air is cold, thick with the scent of damp concrete, old fear, and something metallic—blood, sweat, and dread.

Dean stands by the door, arms crossed, his face a mask of fury and focus. He’s already disabled the cameras—no more witnesses, no more leverage. None of us bother with masks; there’s no need for secrets here. They aren’t leaving this basement. Not after what they’ve done.