Page 79 of Veil of Obsession

Let her play her games. Let her think she can keep one step ahead. Let her keep fucking chasing me.

Because I’m already addicted to her.

A different kind of drug. One I can’t quit. One I don’t even want to.

The liquor burnsdown my throat, hot and sharp, but it does nothing to dull the ache crawling beneath my skin. The club is loud. The bass vibrates through the floors, bodies pressing too close, hands reaching, mouths whispering filth into my ear.

None of it matters. None of it touches me.

I lean back against the leather booth, a girl curling herself into my side, pressing her lips to my throat. I don’t even remember her name. Probably because I don’t care. I push her off me; she tumbles to the floor, sending me a glare before she gets up to leave.

I don’t want her fucking hands on me. The only hands I want belong to someone I shouldn’t be thinking about.

I reach for my drink, but before I can take another sip, I catch Eli’s gaze from across the room. He’s watching me, his expression unreadable.

They’re all watching me. Emiliano. Matteo. Romiro.

They think I don’t notice. Think I’m too caught up in this spiral. In my reckless drinking and partying, the constant cycle of sex, violence, and sin.

They think they know what’s wrong with me. They don’t.

They don’t know that it’s not the alcohol. Not the women. Not the fights or the nights spent drowning in whiskey and bad decisions.

Not anymore. Instead, it’s her. It’s always been her. From the moment my eyes landed on her.

She thinks I don’t know. Her hands in my world, her scent still on my skin, her fucking name burned into my very existence.

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face. I should leave. Go home. Lock myself in my penthouse and pretend I still have some semblance of control.

But the thing is…

I don’t.

I lost control the second I let her in. The second I let her come apart on my fingers. The second she whispered yes when I told her we weren’t done.

And now? Now I can’t fucking stop.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out my phone. I hesitate. I’ve ignored her for days. Removed the tracker she had on my phone and stayed away from my penthouse to avoid her cameras. Shaking my head, I pocket the phone and decide that I have a better idea.

She leavesher fucking window unlocked. Again.

It’s almost too easy, slipping inside like I belong here. Like she leaves her window open just for me. Maybe she does.

The air is thick with the scent of her: caramel, something sweet beneath the sharper edge of whatever expensive perfume she wears. It lingers in the space between us, in the air I breathe, on my skin.

She’s not sleeping. I knew she wouldn’t be. Instead, she’s sitting at her desk, her posture rigid, fingers flying over the keys of her laptop. The screen casts a soft glow over her face, her dark lashes low as she focuses, biting her lips in concentration.

A pretty little liar, pretending she didn’t invade my space, my family’s business, with the little stunt she pulled today. I move closer. Slow. Deliberate. I could drag this out. Could watch her a little longer but my patience is already razor-thin.

So I speak. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

She freezes. Her head snaps up, and I watch the flicker of emotions dance across her face: shock, irritation, something darker beneath it. She schools it fast, but I catch it anyway.

She spins her chair to the side, pretending she isn’t the least bit rattled.

“Lucio,” she says smoothly, her voice the picture of calm control. “Breaking and entering? That’s low, even for you. But I shouldn’t be surprised since you’ve done it once before.”

I don’t take the bait. I step closer—slow, measured, my gaze locked on hers.