Chapter 12 OBSESSION
Wyatt's POV
The drive to her place is silent except for the hum of the engine and her occasional shaky breath. I don't look at her. I keep my eyes on the road, my hands steady on the wheel even though they're still covered in blood.
Three men.
I killed three men tonight.
I should feel something. Regret, maybe. Or at least the inconvenience of having to clean up the mess. But I don't. All I feel is the lingering satisfaction of watching them drop, one by one, for daring to put their filthy hands on what's mine. Wyatt Gorshkovsky never feels regret.
She gives me the address in a small, broken voice. I punch it into the GPS and drive. The neighborhood gets worse the further we go. The buildings grow older, more rundown. Graffiti covers the walls. Broken streetlights leave pools of darkness between flickering yellow halos. This is the kind of place where people mind their business because getting involved means becoming a target.
When I pull up to her building, I have to look at it twice to make sure the GPS is right.
It's a fucking shithole.
The brick facade is crumbling in places. Windows are cracked or covered with plywood. The front door hangs crooked on its hinges. This isn't just poverty. This is was downright horrible living.
And she lived here.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, though I don't know why. I don't care where she lives. I don't care about her circumstances beyond how they benefit me. She's mine now. That's all that matters.
But still. This place…
'Thank you,' she whispers, reaching for the door handle.
'Wait.'
She freezes, her hand hovering over the handle, her body tense like she's waiting for another blow or something from me.
I don't touch her. Instead, I reach into the glove compartment and pull out a pack of wet wipes. I hand them to her without looking at her.
'Clean the blood off your face. You'll attract attention.'
She takes them with trembling fingers and starts wiping at her skin. I watch her from the corner of my eye. The blood comes off in streaks, revealing the paleness underneath and the exhaustion etched on her face.
She looks destroyed.
She should look destroyed. She is destroyed. I made sure of that. When she's done, she crumples the wipes in her hand and reaches for the door again.
'Constantine.'
She looks at me then, really looks at me for the first time since I killed those men. Her blue eyes are red-rimmed and haunted.
'Tomorrow. Eight AM. Don't be late.'
Something flickers across her face. Resignation, maybe. Or hatred. Probably both, not like I care.
'I won't be late,' she says quietly.
She gets out of the car and I watch her walk to that piece-of-shit building, her shoulders hunched, her steps slow and heavy like every movement costs her something. She doesn't look back.
The moment she disappears inside, I pull away from the curb.
The drive back to my penthouse is fast. I know these streets by heart. Left, right, straight, another left. The city slides past my windows in streaks of lights.
I should be thinking about the cleanup. About the three bodies in that alley and how to make sure they disappear without complications. But that's what I pay people for. One phone call and it's handled. It always is.
Instead, I'm thinking about her.
About the way she sank to her knees in my office without a fight. The way her body responded to me even as she hated me for it. The way she felt so fucking tight and hot and perfect when I took her.
She's mine now. Completely, utterly mine. Her body, her time, her desperation. All of it belongs to me. The thought sends a dark satisfaction through my veins.
I know this isn't love. I don't do love. Love is weakness, and I've never been weak. This is obsession. Possession. The same way I collect art or cars or companies—because I want them, and what I want, I take.
Constantine Windsor is just another acquisition. One that happens to come with curves and attitude and a body that responds beautifully to pain mixed with pleasure.
When I get home, I strip off my blood-soaked clothes and step into the shower. The water runs red, then pink, then clear. I watch it swirl down the drain and think about tomorrow. I watch my cock grow just at the thought of it. I groan and run my hands through my face and slap my palm against the wall.
Eight AM. She'll show up because she has no choice. She'll sit at the desk outside my office and do whatever I tell her to do. And when the day is over, she'll come here and let me use her however I want.
The arrangement is perfect.
So why the fuck am I still thinking about that shithole building?
I turn off the water and step out, grabbing a towel. As I dry off, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My knuckles are split and swollen. Bruises are already forming. I flex my fingers, testing the damage. Nothing serious. Nothing that won't heal.
I dress in clean clothes, black slacks, white shirt and head to my study. My phone is on the desk where I left it. I pick it up and scroll through my contacts until I find James.
He answers on the second ring.
'Sir?'
'I need you to do something.'
'Of course. What do you need?'
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. 'Send someone to buy women's professional clothes. Size...' I pause, running through the mental inventory of Constantine's body that I've already committed to memory. 'Size four. Include everything. Blouses, skirts, slacks, shoes. Make sure it's appropriate for the office.'
There's a brief pause on the other end. 'Sir, may I ask—'
'No. Just do it.'
'Yes, sir. When do you need this by?'
'Tonight. Have everything delivered to my penthouse within two hours.'
'Understood. Anything else?'
'No. That's all.'
I hang up before he can ask any more questions.
I don't owe anyone explanations. Not James, not my staff, not anyone. If I want to buy clothes for my new assistant, that's my business.
It's practical, that's all. She clearly doesn't have anything appropriate to wear. I saw the state of her clothes tonight wrinkled, cheap, worn thin from too many washes. If she's going to work for me, she needs to look the part. It's about image and maintaining standards.
It has nothing to do with the way that building looked. With the realization that she probably doesn't even have a proper bed to sleep in, let alone a closet full of professional attire. It's just practical.
I tell myself that as I pour a glass of whiskey and sit in the darkness of my study, the city glittering below me through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
She's mine now. My personal whore.