BECOMING HIS OBSESSION

CHAPTER FIVE: THALIA POV Less than two minutes and we arrive at what he calls "my apartment." He simply drove us behind his building-a route I've never been able to track because I always lose him at some point during my surveillance. Standing outside this so-called apartment, with a garden situated at the corner, his penthouse looms just across a stretch of manicured trees and rooftops. Close enough to watch. Close enough to control. He's putting me in a cage and calling it a job. "How is this my apartment?" I ask, but like earlier, he ignores me and heads inside. The building is compact but luxurious. A mini-duplex with clean lines aan pool that overlooks the city. I hate pools, especially large ones. Their vastness always reminds me how alone I am. But this one is different-contained, controlled, like everything else in Carlos's world. I scan for cameras while he's not looking. Three visible-one by the entrance, one covering the living area, one aimed at the pool. Standard security. Another reason this PA job is a hard no. "The intercom by the gate connects directly to my building," he says, running his fingers along the marble countertop. "When I call, you answer." He's nuts. "If I was meant to be a slave, I'd have been born in the 1600s." He doesn't acknowledge my insult, just continues. "New clothes will be delivered in..." he glances at his Hublot watch "-fifteen minutes. Select what you want and return the rest." "Can I say no?" But he's already moving deeper into the apartment, inspecting every corner. Currently, I'm drowning in his shirt and jeans-a humiliating reminder of last night. I'd demanded my own clothes back, but he'd simply said "dry cleaning" with the kind of finality that brooked no argument. The jeans hang loose despite the tie he provided as a belt, and his shirt drapes over me like I'm playing dress-up. My fingers find the third camera in my pocket. Still there. I need to plant it somewhere-the VIP club or his warehouse. "I can't be a personal assistant," I say to his back as he examines the security panel by the door. "You need someone submissive." He opens cabinets, checks the refrigerator that's already been stocked. Everything planned, everything controlled. Just like him. "That's not me. But I can cook, supervise, any w..." He turns so suddenly I don't have time to balance myself or imagine the blood his hands symbolize before they close around my waist as he lifts me onto the kitchen island in one fluid motion. The marble is cold against my thighs, but his hands burn through the fabric. I'm tall, but perched here with him standing between my legs, he still towers over me. My stomach lurches. Not from the height. From the proximity. My mother's throat. My father's chest. My brother's- "What's in your apartment that made you almost kill us getting away from it?" His voice cuts through the spiral. I force myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Marcus's training: Stay present. "My husband." The lie comes out steadier than I feel. His eyebrows draw together, and something dangerous flickers in his dark eyes. "Husband." He repeats it with a deep tone and furrowed brows. "He doesn't like other men around me. If he sees you..." I let the sentence trail off, watching his eyes narrow. Carlos steps closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his chest. His hands are still on my waist, thumbs pressed against my ribs. Making me feel everything Vaughn made me feel before. Push him away. Reach for the gun at your ankle. Do something. Gun. He knows I have a gun. I need better lies. He tilts his head to the side. I don't move. Shouldn't. Because buried beneath the revulsion is something worse: curiosity. The same sick fascination that makes people slow down at car accidents. "If he sees you, it won't end well." His eyes turn dark and glaring, making his face a mask of something raging. He lets go of me, but I can still see his neck veins protruding as he walks over to the mini-bar in the living room. He doesn't find what he wants. A loud slam makes me jump Before I can move to climb down, he strides toward me. Three seconds. That's all the warning I get before he's in front of me again, cigarette smoke curling between us like a threat as his hand wraps around my throat. Firm enough to hold me in place, not enough to cut off air. An unwanted heat pools between my thighs. "Is that why you have a Colt Mustang strapped around your knee?" His voice lays something heavy on my throat. "Tha...lia." My name drags out like he's standing on the edge of a cliff, and I'm drawn to the bobbing of his Adam's apple. "Your... your gender isn't trustworthy." I gaze away from him, but his grip turns me back to face him. Empty silence heightens the awareness of us together. His eyes search me-from my eyes to my lips, then down my seated body before hovering on my lips again. He opens his mouth to say something but closes it again, puffing his cigarette before letting go of my throat. My feet hit the floor and I walk past him, feeling his gaze glued to my back. Within seconds, footsteps echo from behind me. Fast. Then my head snaps back. Pain shoots across my scalp as he fists my hair and yanks me back against his shoulder. I gasp, hands flying up instinctively to grab his wrist. The position forces my back to arch, my throat to expose, my body to curve into his. Out of instinct, I twist his finger. He winces but doesn't let go. I should fight harder. Heel to his toes. Move. But I don't. Because when he pulls me flush against his chest, his scent gets me pinned: citrus and oud and something darker underneath. The same scent I've been inhaling from his shirt all day, that's been surrounding me like smoke. "Does your husband know you're in my apartment?" His other hand slides to my lower back, fingertips pressing just above my waistband, igniting currents through me. I hate it. Hate that my body responds to the same hands that- "Wearing my clothes, smelling like me, about to get your life to revolve around me?" His nails dig further into my waist. A startled rush of air slip from me. I elbow him in the side, but he just presses tighter. "Careful."