Page 50 of Shared Obsession

I smile, just a little, and lean in and kiss him—soft, gentle, barely more than a whisper. “The nightmares, they feel so real. Sometimes I wake up, and I’m right back there.”

Alex doesn’t rush me, just lets the quiet stretch as I find my words. “How am I supposed to forget, to move on, to be strong, when I’m still covered in their marks? How can you even look at me like this?”

He just looks at me, his gaze burning with a mix of love and fury. “I look at you, Ayla, and I see someone who survived hell itself. Most people wouldn’t have really made it out. But you did. Here you are. In a few weeks, the bruises will start to fade, and the wounds will close, leaving only the scars—proof of just how fucking strong you are. You are beautiful, Ayla. Every single part of you. And you deserve so much better. So let’s make them pay, yeah?”

A spark of determination lights inside me. “Let’s make them pay,” I echo, my voice steadier this time, clinging to his promise—and to my own.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Alexander

It’s been long enough now that Ayla’s injuries have healed—her bruises faded, her burns and cuts nothing but scars, reminders of what she survived, just like I told her they would. But it’s not just her body that’s changed—it’s everything about her. There’s a new steadiness in her, a strength that wasn’t there before. She moves through the house differently now: head held higher, shoulders squared, her eyes not just wary but sharp and clear. She doesn’t flinch at every touch. She doesn’t shrink from the world. She’s started to laugh again—sometimes softly, sometimes with a bite—and the sound hits me right in the chest every time. I watch her and realize: she’s not just surviving anymore. She’s fighting. She’s clawed her way back to herself, and every day, she seems more unbreakable, more sure of the woman she’s becoming. It’s awe-inspiring and humbling, and I know none of us will ever let anyone take that from her again.

The silence from Charles and Nathan doesn’t surprise any of us. We called the truce weeks ago, and as far as they know, we intend to keep it. But it’s all bullshit. In truth, every day since, Zayn, Dean, Ayla, and I have been plotting, watching, and waiting. We’re not letting them slip away. We’re going to hunt them down and finish this, once and for all. Zayn and I have spent the last week following them, learning their routines and patterns, while Dean’s been glued to his laptop, combing through hacked emails, schedules, and anything else that might give us an edge. The calm is just the lull before the storm we’re about to rain down on them.

The plan is simple: grab Nathan. Every Friday, he regulars at an exclusive club downtown and drinks with his friends. Lately, neither he nor Charles has made a move toward Ayla—after the truce, they’ve been keeping their distance, going about their lives as if nothing ever happened. But Dean’s been watching their emails closely, and it's clear they’re still in touch—exchanging regular, casual messages about work, investments, even old inside jokes. Charles might be many things, but he won’t just throw Nathan under the bus—at least, that’s what we’re banking on tonight. If we grab Nathan, we know Charles will come running. That’s our window. That’s tonight. Game time.

But for now, I want a moment alone with her. We’re all on edge, nerves buzzing, the house tense with fear and something a little darker. I catch Ayla reading on the couch, sunlight catching on the faint purple marks at her wrists, and I realize how far she’s come. “Hey, darling,” I say, voice low and gentle. “Come with me. Let’s go for a ride. Wear the sundress I got you.”

She doesn’t hesitate, just gets up and disappears to change. When she comes back, she’s wearing the short yellow dress I bought her in Charleston, the one she never got to wear. She’s radiant—her hair loose, skin glowing, the kind of beauty that makes my throat go tight. “Come on, darling,” I say, leading her outside. The air is warm, the first sign of summer approaching. The bike is waiting, chrome gleaming in the sun. She starts to climb on behind me, but I shake my head. “No, sit here, in front of me.”

She blinks, uncertain. “What? Why?”

I grin, settling on the seat and patting the space between my legs. “Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”

She laughs, rolling her eyes, but does as I ask. She settles in front of me, her back pressed to my chest, my arms wrapping around her—locking her in tight. Her feet rest on top of mine, her thighs bare against my jeans, and I feel her shiver as I start the engine.

We take off, the wind rushing past, the road blurring beneath us as I guide us out onto an old back road, miles from anywhere. The world narrows to just the two of us and the hum of the bike, freedom and danger mingling in the air. I keep one hand on the throttle, the other sliding up her thigh, slow and deliberate, testing her reaction. Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t stop me. My hand grazes the hem of her dress, fingertips brushing over her panties, teasing her. “Alex,” she breathes, her voice shaky, but her heart is pounding. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

But I don’t stop. We’re flying seventy down the road, sunlight glinting through the trees, my fingers slipping higher, brushing over the damp heat between her legs. She arches into my touch, hands gripping my thighs, a soft moan lost in the rush of wind. I slide her panties to the side, my fingers slipping over the slick heat of her, finding her clit and tracing slow, deliberate circles. She starts to rock her hips, caught between the thrill of speed and the ache of my touch, her breath shallow and desperate. The bike hums beneath us, the world blurring by in flashes of sunlight and shadow, and for a few wild moments, it feels like we’re untouchable—reckless and free, nothing and no one around for miles.

I pull my fingers away and ease the bike to a stop on the edge of an empty, sun-washed highway, tall grass waving all around us, the engine ticking as it cools. The silence is thick and intimate, broken only by the sound of our breathing. I lean in, pulling Ayla close so she can feel the hard line of my body against hers. My lips brush her ear, my words a rough, hungry promise. “Ayla, I fucking want you. I’ve missed you.” I whisper, my voice thick with need. “If you’ll let me…”

She shivers, but her voice is strong, laced with a desperate need. “Yes. Please, Alex.”

I slide my hand up her thigh, fingertips teasing the edge of her panties before I slip them to the side. My fingers find her clit, slow circles drawing out soft, desperate whimpers that make my cock ache. I kiss her neck, lips grazing her skin as she arches back into my chest, her hands gripping my arms for balance.

Her hips start to roll, matching my rhythm, and I move faster, lost in the music of her moans. I slide one finger inside her, feeling how wet she is for me, my thumb pressing steady circles against her clit. She gasps, her body tightening, and I hook my finger, searching for that spot I know unravels her. Her thighs tremble, her breath stutters, and I slip a second finger in, working her with careful, practiced pressure until I feel her start to break apart. Her pussy flutters around my fingers, and her muscles grow tight as I hook my fingers to hit that sweet spot over and over.

When her orgasm hits, she cries out my name—raw, beautiful, unrestrained. I hold her steady with one arm, dragging out her release until she’s shivering, undone, every nerve sparking with pleasure. Slowly, I withdraw my fingers, slick with her cum, and bring them to my mouth, sucking them clean, savoring her taste. “I want to fuck you,” I growl into her ear, the hunger in my voice making my own skin tingle. There aren’t words for how much I need her right here, right now—sunlight, wind, all of it blurring into pure want. Ayla slides off the bike, turning to look at me with her bottom lip caught between her teeth, eyes dark with desire. I watch every motion, undoing my belt and unzipping my jeans with shaking hands, pulling out my cock, throbbing—hard, heavy, piercings glinting in the sun.

She steps closer, and when she goes to climb back onto the bike, I stop her, lifting her easily and settling her in front of me, hovering over my cock. I pause, searching her eyes. “Please,” I whisper, not moving, waiting for her word, her kiss, the permission that will break me. She leans in, kissing me hard—hungry, devouring—and that’s all the confirmation I need. I grip her hips and pull her down, sliding inside her tight, wet heat, and for a second, the world disappears. Holy fucking hell, she feels like heaven—so hot, so tight, her body gripping me, milking me, every movement making me want more.

She rides me, rolling her hips, moans tumbling from her lips, her legs wrapped around my waist. I hold her steady, guiding her up and down, loving the way she moves on my cock, the feel of her nails digging into my shoulders. My thumb finds her clit, circling it in tight, relentless spirals, and when she clamps down around me, I know she’s close. “Alex,” she cries out, her voice cracking as she falls apart. The sight of her breaking on me unleashes something primal—I thrust up into her, deep and hard, and let go, groaning as I spill inside her, the sensation so intense it leaves me fucking shaking.

She collapses against my chest, both of us breathless, clinging to each other in the hush of the empty highway. Suddenly, I spot headlights in the distance—a car coming fast. “Ayla, I gotta zip my jeans,” I say, urgency and laughter tangled together. She climbs off, legs shaking with aftershocks, and I tuck myself away just in time as the car rolls past.

Ayla lets out a breathless laugh, that wild, carefree sound I love. “Let’s go home,” she says, and we take off, leaving the road behind as the sun dips lower, everything feeling possible for the first time in a long while.

Zayn

I’m packing the Jeep with everything we could possibly need—rope, duct tape, zip ties, and a bottle of chloroform Dean managed to score off the dark web. We are wearing our bulletproof vests under our clothes, except for Ayla, who wouldn’t have been able to hide it. There’s a stun gun I picked up at an army surplus store, latex gloves, and even a first-aid kit packed with all sorts of medicine. I don't know what most of it is. Dean scares me sometimes with what he can find, but I love him for it—he thinks of every angle, every contingency, even if some of it might feel like overkill.

Each item I shove into the duffel is a reminder of how far we’ve come, how much darker we’re willing to go to end this nightmare once and for all. My hands shake as I check the gear—counting out zip ties, double-checking the length of rope, feeling the cold, hard weight of the knife I’ll keep in my boot. Adrenaline buzzes under my skin, a steady electric hum. Every piece of gear is a promise: we’re not backing down, not this time. Not until Ayla is truly safe and those bastards are where they belong—in the ground. Prison is too good for them.

Alex and Ayla pull into the drive, headlights sweeping over the gravel. Ayla climbs out, cheeks flushed, hair wild from the wind, but it’s her eyes that stop me—sharp, clear, burning with a resolve I haven’t seen before. There’s a new steadiness in her, a strength etched in the set of her jaw and the way she stands taller, shoulders squared, like she’s daring the world to try and break her again. Even with the scars along her neck and arms, she looks formidable—untouchable. Alex is grinning like a man who just got away with something dangerous, but the real fire is in Ayla’s gaze. She looks at me, and I see it: she’s ready to fight for herself this time.

“Okay, Ayla, you’re riding with me,” I tell her, keeping my voice steady. “Alex and Dean are taking the bikes. We stick to the plan—no improvising unless we have to.”