Frayed Obsession (The Frayed Trilogy 1)

Instead of white, the wall in front of me is gloss black—the small rectangular tiles forming an arrow pattern towards the ceiling. I can’t help but run my hand over the sleek surface, my fingers gliding effortlessly as water falls from above. The room really is beautiful, and the view is amazing as long as I don’t think about the possibility of anyone seeing me through the large window.

While keeping my hand on the wall for balance, I position myself better under the spray and let the water wash away the events of the past two days.

Not wanting to stay on my feet for too long, I grab the bottle of body wash from the niche and pour some into my hands, rubbing them together to lather it up. I run my soaped hands over my body—across my chest, down my arms and legs, and over my stomach. Hating the physical reminder of everythinghedid to me, my movements become faster, and I try to ignore the sick feeling every time my fingers slide over raised flesh. The hot water rinses away the suds, and I allow the memories trying to escape to wash away along with them.

Making quick work of washing my hair using products I also find in the wall niche, I finish up and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel off the rack. I wrap the surprisingly warm material around myself.

Rummaging through the few things I own in my bag, I try to find something to wear, even though I already know I’m not going to find something clean.

I pull out a cream coloured knit, myonlyknit. It’s also the warmest thing I own. I lift it to my nose and sniff, just to make sure it’s not horrible. Thankfully, it smells okay, and since I don’t want to try to put my jeans on with my swollen ankle, my only other option is the leggings I wore to bed. The last thing I want to do right now is put on dirty clothes, but I’m certainly not staying wrapped in this towel all day, no matter how soft it is.

Sometimes I miss what I had before—a comfortable bed, clean clothes, and proper meals.

A heated towel rack.

But I’d still give it all up in a heartbeat, a million times over, if the cost of living with luxury was torment and misery, even if that choice left me with nothing.

I was happy once with my dad. Life was good. We were missing a piece, but we were happy, then he was gone. With another piece lost, my nightmare began.

I didn’t get to choose that path—what happened after. But I would choose to have nothing if it meant I was free.

My heart aches at the thought of my dad, so sitting on the lid of the toilet, I busy myself with getting dressed instead of giving in to the sorrow.

The tape around my ankle is damp and a little frayed around the edges. I probably shouldn’t have gotten it wet, but it still feels tight and secure.

My throat feels dry, and I cringe at the fuzzy feeling over my teeth. Eyeing the cabinets under the sink, I use the counter to help push myself up. In the second drawer, I find a couple of toothbrushes, still in the packaging, and a tube of toothpaste.

This has to be the guest room, not that Sebastian would probably go as far to call me aguest,but surely, he wouldn’t mind. I roll the sleeves of my knit once, the oversized style reaching to my mid-thighs, and finish up in the bathroom. When I’m done, I grab my backpack and stash it under the bed—feeling better once it’s tucked away.

The penthouse is quiet as I try to navigate back towards the main area. I’m starting to wonder if it’s always this way when a loud smash cuts through the silence, followed by a curse. The sudden outburst causes me to jump, my hands flying to my chest, and I hesitate at the end of the hall, not sure what to expect.

Could Sebastian be hurt?

As I round the corner, a puddle of brown liquid and chunks of a white ceramic mug are covering the floor by the island bench. I take in the mess, but my eyes soon find the cause of my concern.

Sebastian leans over the counter along the edge of the kitchen, hands spread wide on the smooth stone, head hanging forward. His white shirt tucked neatly into dark grey slacks stretches perfectly over his broad shoulders and the bunched muscles of his back.

I hate that I’ve made things worse for him.

It was already there.

The hurt.

The pain.

The anger.

Obscured beneath his hard exterior.

But now, everything I could see inside him is starting to seep through the cracks that bringing his parents’ death to the surface has created.

All I want to do is wrap myself around him and absorb some of it for him.

I don’t even realise I’ve moved until my bare toes come in contact with the spilled coffee. I’m not sure if he heard me or somehow sensed my presence, but suddenly aware, Sebastian’s head flicks up, and he spins to face me.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come looking for him.

The only reason I’m still here is to ensure Sebastian gets his vengeance.