Sweet Obsession (Ruthless Games 1)

“I will never let you go.”

* * *

I jerk upright in bed, both arms flailing uselessly in the empty space around me.

For a moment, I swear I can feel a painful tingling sensation in all five fingers of my missing hand, as if the limb has reattached itself in my sleep.

Then the feeling fades, leaving just the hard thump of my heart and the sheen of sweat cooling on my body.

Closing my eyes to block out the light seeping in around the blinds on the windows, I drag my hand down my face.

Fuck.

This long after the shooting, my dreams should be getting better, not worse.

The m

emories should be fading, not becoming more raw and jagged-edged.

I saw a therapist for a few sessions while I was in the middle of the hardest part of recovery, trying to rebuild my sense of self with an entire piece of my body missing. But I couldn’t afford to keep seeing her, and the truth was, I didn’t want to. She asked me questions that made me uncomfortable, probing parts of my soul I wasn’t ready to let anyone touch. She forced me to admit to feelings I didn’t want to have, so when money got tight, I used that as an easy excuse to stop visiting her.

Maybe that was a stupid mistake.

Because I have no goddamn idea how to process this.

It’s not the first time I’ve dreamed that I heard what Marcus murmured to me that night, imagining I could make out the words he said.

But it’s the first time it’s been those words.

I will never let you go.

Is it possible that’s what he really said to me the night I was shot? Or is my mind just filling in the blanks, making up bullshit based on the insane turn my life has taken?

Flopping back down on the mattress, I let my eyes fall closed again for a few minutes. It’s too damn early to be awake, considering it was almost four in the morning when I finally fell asleep.

But then again, I don’t particularly feel like going back to sleep and revisiting that dream all over again. And I need to get up before too long anyway. I’ve got a temp gig lined up for today—something at an office downtown.

I rest for a few more minutes before hauling my tired ass out of bed for a shower. When I emerge from the bathroom feeling a little more human, I throw on a pair of nice-ish jeans and a tank top. Next, I tug a thin sleeve over the bottom part of my amputated arm.

I make a face at my prosthesis where it rests on my dresser, then grab it and slip my arm into the socket before sliding the straps over my shoulders.

It’s not that hard to tell it’s a fake hand if you look at it for more than a quick glance, but it’ll at least mean I have to deal with fewer questions today.

I slip on my only nice blazer before dabbing a little mascara on my eyelashes. I leave my hair down. I’ve actually gotten pretty good at slipping it into a ponytail one-handed, but it’s always a little messy.

Deciding not to waste my money on another cab, I take the bus downtown instead, then head inside the office to check in at the front desk.

The gig turns out to be both easy and boring as fuck. I spend the entire day sorting through boxes of old files at an advertising firm, tucked away in a small corner cubicle that nobody probably uses anymore.

There’s one other temp assigned to the same task. After she tries to make conversation and I shut her down for the third time, she gives up and the two of us work in silence.

You’re just a bitter, sad loner.

Natalie’s vicious words tumble through my mind again, and I chew on my bottom lip.

I’ve gotten fucking good at shutting the world out. Maybe it would be better if I did talk to this chick. Maybe it would help the time pass quicker, and maybe—just maybe—we’d actually have shit in common. Maybe we’d like the same books or movies or music.

But then what?