Page 8 of His Darkest Obsession

You have no choice.

Because if I die, then Amara will have no one left in the world. And I can’t do that to her.

The razor presses just a little closer to his neck.

He doesn't react at all, other than letting his smile grow wider as he tilts his head back further to expose more of his throat. His blue eyes pierce me like he’s staring straight into my soul.

Like heexpectsme to do something like this.

Like hewantsme to do something like this.

The razor starts to move. A thin red line appears on the man’s neck, and blood mixes with the white soap in a pale pink swirl. The sight of it stops my heart.

And my hand.

Blood rushes in my ears at what I just did. My breathing grows uneven, and I can’t stop staring at the blood that keeps oozing out from where the blade opened him as it stains the pristine white collar of his shirt.

But he just keeps watching me. Waiting.

Like this is all some kind of test.

"Keep going." His voice drops lower, almost a purr. "I didn’t tell you to stop."

But before I can, a movement catches my eye from the front window. A black sedan crawls to a stop by the fire hydrant outside even though there’s no traffic on the street.

That's weird.

The tinted window rolls down slowly.

The dying sun glints off something metal.

My eyes widen in recognition.

Gun!

Before I can scream, before I can move, before I can even process what's happening, the man in my chair explodes into action. His hand closes around my wrist, and yanks me down to the ground at the same time as he launches himself out of the chair.

The gun roars.

The window shatters.

"Stay down!"

His body covers mine as glass rains down around us. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, and I find myself pressed against the floor, trapped beneath his solid muscle and expensive suit.

His heart is racing against my chest. Or maybe that's mine. I can't tell anymore.

More shots ring out.

His weight presses me hard against the floor as more glass explodes overhead.

I can't breathe. Not because he's heavy—he is—but because something hard is digging into my hip, and it takes me a moment to recognize what it is.

A gun under his jacket.

My heart slams against my ribs. This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

His arm stretches past my face, and for one wild second I think he's reaching for me. I flinch, but his fingers close around the razor that's fallen from my grip.