Page 28 of Sinful Obsession

He crossed the space between us in one impossible step.

Before I could flinch, his hand gripped the front of my smoke-stained uniform—and ripped it clean down the middle.

I gasped.

The green fabric hit the floor, my arms flying to cover myself, heat flooding my face.

“You—how dare you assault me?” I snapped, my voice trembling with rage and shame.

He grabbed my wrist, his grip iron, and spun me away from him, shoving me toward the bed.

I stumbled, falling onto the plush mattress with a bounce, my heart racing as I scrambled to face him, my resolve fracturing. “You monster,” I spat.

“Are you going to rape me now?” I demanded, voice shaking.

I scooted back, my hands clutching the sheets, my body screaming to flee. “Stay the fuck away from me,” I hissed, my voice raw with fear.

Cassian stood at the bed’s edge, his silhouette dark against the window, his eyes glinting like a demon’s.

“It seems,” he said coolly, “you really have forgotten who I used to be.”

A memory crashed into me—my eighteenth birthday, a night of terror when two men’s hands had pinned me, their breath hot with threats.

The clarity of it gripped me, my breath catching as I wondered if Cassian was about to repeat that nightmare. “Please... don’t come closer,” I whispered, my voice breaking, my chest heaving with panic.

“Scared of getting fucked bloody, huh?” he taunted, his words a cruel echo of that night.

My resolve broke completely. I curled in on myself, body trembling.

He watched, unyielding, his face a mask of cold amusement.

“Get in the bathroom,” he ordered, striding to the wardrobe and yanking open a section to reveal a row of dresses.

He pointed to a black outfit—sleek trousers and a matching top

“Change into this.”

I didn’t move.

“You have thirty minutes,” he said. “Any longer, and I’ll make those fears of yours come true.”

Then he turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him with terrifying calm.

I collapsed against the bed, my hand clutching my chest, my heart pounding as if it could burst through my ribs.

The Morettis were brutal—I’d known that—but this? This was a new kind of terror, a personal vendetta I couldn’t understand.

Why hadn’t he mocked my chest, my scars? If we were married, as the wedding card claimed, had he seen them before?

The thought that he might be unbothered because of a shared past drove me to the edge of madness.

I needed answers—about Elodie, about our marriage, about the three years stolen from me.

I forced myself up, my legs unsteady, and stumbled to the bathroom.

I bathed quickly, the hot water doing little to ease the dread.

The black outfit stared at me from the wardrobe, but defiance sparked. I chose a pink set instead, a signal that I wasn’t his to control.