Page 30 of Chasing After You (Twisted Desires #3)

Dorian

Josh ended up sleeping in my bed for the second night in a row. In the calm of dawn, I watched him, waiting for him to wake up, but also just taking the time to admire him.

His face was relaxed.

I stared at the tiny scar above his brow, a reminder of some childhood fall I couldn’t quite remember, and wondered how someone like me had ever earned the right to be this close to someone like him.

I hadn’t, of course. Not really.

He was curled against me, one arm draped over his chest, the other nestled between us. His fingers brushed the fabric of my shirt, and I had the ridiculous thought that if I didn’t move, if I just stayed still enough, maybe he’d just stay asleep and never leave my side.

But the threat had been real. Not in his voice—no, his voice had been gentle, almost apologetic—but in the words themselves.

Report me.

Leave.

Fuck.

The drugging had been a mistake—a big one.

But I’d done it because I wanted control. Because I didn’t want him to leave. Because I wanted him pliant, vulnerable, with no escape but me.

I wanted to be good for him.

God , I wanted to be good.

But the part of me that lived in the shadows of his smile—the part that watched too closely, felt too deeply, loved too violently—never really went away. It only waited like a wolf resting in the bones of a man.

I reached out and gently brushed my hand over his head, relishing in the softness of his hair against my palm. He sighed in his sleep and nuzzled deeper into the pillow.

It was so easy to forget in moments like this. So easy to pretend that we were just two people, just brothers. Two completely normal people who did normal things and had normal thoughts. But there was a storm brewing in the space between what he thought I was and what I knew I was.

I would try to be good for him, to follow the rules, stay on the right path.

I was trying.

But sometimes, when he smiled at me like I hadn’t broken his trust, when he asked me to do something small and normal—make him coffee, help him carry laundry, hand him the remote—I didn’t feel proud of myself for being good.

I felt resentful .

Resentful that I had to prove myself over and over again when he’d left me . That I had to stay on a leash to be lovable. That I had to pretend not to want things that I desperately fucking wanted.

I wanted him .

Not just close. Not just here.

I wanted all of him. The softness and the vulnerability and the dark, sad, scared parts he thought no one could love. I wanted his complete surrender, his fear, his trust .

But I couldn’t have that and keep him too. At least, not now.

So I buried it.

I buried it deep.

I curled an arm around his waist and gently pulled him a little closer, feeling his body melt into mine like it had been crafted perfectly to fit my shape.

“I’ll be better,” I whispered into his hair, unsure if it was a vow or a lie, “for you.”

Because if I couldn’t be good for him… I’d lose him.

And I couldn’t survive that again. In all truth… I wasn’t sure he’d survive it either.

* * *

Josh was still sleeping when I slipped out of bed.

I got out of bed silently, letting the warmth of his body fade from mine as I pulled on a shirt and padded barefoot through the house.

The quiet here felt different this morning.

It didn’t feel lonely—never that, not with him here—but maybe fragile .

Like the whole place was holding its breath, waiting to see if I’d fucking ruin everything.

I went to the kitchen, flicked the light on, and stood at the counter with both hands pressed flat to the cool marble. My reflection caught in the microwave door—under eyes bruised under the weight of another sleepless night, jaw clenched like I was expecting a fight.

I hated that I’d scared him.

But part of me… no, not part of me—all of me understood why I had.

The truth was, I didn’t understand people. Not really. I could mimic it—conversations, small talk, appropriate reactions. But I didn’t feel things the way I was supposed to.

Josh was the only thing I felt I got right. Well, at least most of the time.

When he smiled, something in me sang. When he looked disappointed, my bones splintered.

I leaned my head forward, resting my forehead on my arm, and squeezed my eyes shut.

Is that what love is for someone like me? Control? Possession?

I didn’t know how to love without it. I wanted to keep him safe, keep him happy—but more than that, I needed to keep him mine .

I wanted to be the only one who knew how to calm him when he was spiraling out of control, the only one he turned to when the world got too loud, and the only one who ever made him feel chosen.

And that want—that need —was relentless.

It gnawed at me, even after the promises I’d made, after the contrition I’d faked well enough to half-believe it myself.

Because beneath it all, the truth remained.

I didn’t regret loving him like this.

I only regret getting called out for it.

I straightened slowly, rolling my neck until it cracked. I thought about the words he’d said: You can’t ever do that to me again.

And I would try. I’d try to be good.

But there was this echo in the back of my skull, soft and persistent, saying: What if that’s the only way I know how to love him?

Because I wasn’t built for boundaries, I didn’t have neat little boxes for guilt and shame and restraint. I had hunger. I had obsession. I had devotion , however dark it may have been.

Josh deserved someone better than me.

And still, he was in my house. In my bed.

He kept choosing me, even if he didn’t know why, even if he was still lying to himself about what he wanted, even if I had to drag him through fire to get him to admit the truth of it someday.

I would do better. I would try for him.

But if trying wasn’t enough…

Then I’d find another way.