Obsession Rewired

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Don't leave, I drawled, lazily hooking a finger into Weston's sleeve in the middle of the blacked-out house. I'm scared of the dark.

He had just finished drawing my bath. The broad back of his figure, holding a flashlight, suddenly went rigidly still. The heavy lines of his muscles locked tight in the dim light.

He whipped around, his massive frame closing in on me with pure, suffocating aggression.

His voice dropped into a terrifyingly rough gravel. "Sloane, you'd better be damn sure of what you're suggesting right now."

Oh, I was perfectly sure.

He was the boy my parents had dragged out of the slumsmy contracted, exclusive bodyguard, and my legally binding husband.

In my previous life, our marriage was nothing but a cold business arrangement. It wasn't until my dying breath that I finally realized this man had been harboring a secret, desperate obsession with me for fifteen long years.

Chapter 1

I woke up, dragged back to my eighteen-year-old self.

My future contracted husband in name only stared at my college application resume. Looking at the screen filled with abysmal grades, his knucklesfingers that were so used to gripping cold steelturned white. His brow locked in a tight frown. "You're planning to apply to the Ivy League with this?"

Ignoring the whole Ivy League discussion, I tilted my head and leaned into his space. "Weston, do you have a crush on me or something?"

Scratch.

The pen gouged a long, sharp line across the printed paper. Weston's gaze snapped to me, his pupils dilating as a flash of something wild and cornered crossed his face before hardening. A mocking smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "And if I do?"

Tsk. At nineteen, he was still too green to mask his reactions. I gave a casual "Oh," and dropped my gaze back to the messy notes on the desk, playing it off like nothing happened. I mindlessly traced the edge of the paper.

Soon, Westons low, gravelly voice vibrated through the quiet rooma sound he had clearly been keeping leashed. "Sloane."

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. His eyes were pure, dangerous warning. "Don't mess with me."

I turned to look at him, my expression dead serious. "Weston"

He gripped the pen so hard the plastic casing cracked, threatening to splinter into his palm.

I held his gaze. "I'm starving."

His jawline went rigid. He stood up abruptly, towering over me with an oppressive, heavy stare for two agonizingly long seconds. Then, he spun on his heel and strode toward the kitchen to make me a sandwich.

I couldn't hold it back. I let out a soft laugh.

The year my father dragged him home, Weston was fourteen.

He looked like a feral wolf pup dragged straight out of the slums. Wearing a faded, threadbare jacket and combat boots caked in street mud, he stood in the center of our ridiculously lavish living room. His eyes darted around, fierce yet defensive, tracking every movement like a cornered animal.

I stood on the sweeping staircase. We locked eyes for a few seconds before he jerked his gaze away.

Brooding, volatile, dripping with dangerous pride but carrying the heavy chip of the streets on his shoulder. That was my first impression of him.

I didn't exactly roll out the welcome mat, but I wasn't throwing fits either. As long as he wasn't some secret bastard child of my dad's, whatever.

Weston was only a year older than me. We grew up under the same roof, practically childhood well, not exactly sweethearts, but something close enough.

The Weston I married later was a man of few words, always buried in business, and incredibly skilled in bed. Aside from the lack of love, we had a flawless marriage.

Year ten of our contractual marriage.

I stumbled upon a tiny detail that suggested he might have been harboring a secret, obsessive crush on me for years.

And the morning after making that little discovery, I woke up, thrown back in time to the summer right before college.

What can I say? Watching Weston walk back in, carrying a plate of cakehis posture rigid, his profile sharp and strikingI realized something. I wasn't planning on getting a new husband.

I kicked off my shoes and slid my bare foot over, tracing the hard lines of his waist with my toes. "I'm exhausted." I leaned lazily back against my chair and parted my lips. "Feed me."

Weston's eyes went ice-cold. We stared each other down until, predictably, he cracked first.

Halfway through feeding me the cake, Westons massive frame suddenly went rigid. His large hand shot out, clamping like an iron vice around my wandering ankle.

His voice dropped to a dangerous, icy growl, heavy with warning. "Sloane. You better behave."

Fine. I shrugged and pulled my foot back.

Weston forced his breathing back to a steady rhythm. His face remained a mask of stone as he brought another piece of cake toward my mouth.

I pushed his hand away, tilting my head. "You have some too."

Weston's eyes darkened. He didn't bother grabbing the fork. Instead, he simply lowered his head and bit the remaining cake right out of my hand. His rough tongue swept across my fingertips, capturing the smeared frosting as his Adam's apple bobbed sharply in his throat.

Delicious. And I wasn't talking about the cake.

Chapter 2

I flashed him a wicked, unapologetic smile, feigning innocence. "Weston, you just ate right out of my hand is this what people call an indirect kiss?"

Westons grip on the fork tightened. His jaw clenched in silent agony. "Sloane."

I ignored him, answering my own question. "No. It's not." I threw my leg over him, straddling his lap directly.

I grabbed his collar, yanking him crashing against me, and let my tongue sweep away the frosting at the corner of his lips. "Honey, this is a real kiss."

Westons spine locked. A flash of dark humiliation and raw heat ripped across his striking face. His self-control was frankly terrifying. Even pushed this far, his eyes just darkened into pure predator territory without him moving a muscle.

Oh, wait. There was some physical reaction. I could feel the hard evidence pressing against me.

I decided to pull back slightly, keeping the torture strictly verbal. "You look like you want to kill me, Weston." I tilted my head. "But we both know you love every second of this, don't you?"

His jaw muscle jumped. "Is this how you treat me? Sloane."

A dark shadow crossed his face. "I am not your plaything."

Tsk. Nineteen-year-old Weston was way too easy to break. And I couldn't resist twisting the knife.

"Of course you aren't a toy." I dropped the playful smile, my expression going dead cold. "You are just the exclusive bodyguard and contracted husband my money bought."

Perfect. Weston stormed off, successfully driven away. Watching the stiff, awkward way he walked to hide his condition, my mood drastically improved. Honestly, I was still pissed.

He had been obsessed with me for years and never breathed a word of it. Watching his retreating back, I let out a cold scoff. Fine. Keep choking on it, then.

Weston didn't actually need to worry. My GPA wasn't nearly as trashed as he thought; I had enough leverage and money to secure a spot at Columbia. Doing it all over again, I kept the same major.

I used to think his obsession with getting me into an Ivy was just a desperate bid to prove his worth to my tycoon parents. But now the picture clicked together. Maybe the bastard just wanted to keep me chained right next to him.

Three days after submitting the applications, Weston planned a trip back to his rootsthat bottom-tier red-light district crawling with violence, poverty, and rotting, abandoned factories. The memories overlapped. But the difference this time was that I tagged along. Crossing half the country, I forced myself into his space, dragging my designer luggage all the way to the Rust Belt.

It was a decaying concrete wasteland. It lacked the neon-soaked, money-drenched skyline of Manhattan. Here, there were only cracked asphalt roads and flickering, bullet-holed streetlamps.

Weston gripped his duffel bag, stopping in front of a heavily graffitied, rundown apartment block.

The space was hollow and drafted with the smell of rust. I knew this used to belong to his grandmother. With his only blood relatives dying early, he had been kicked around like a stray dog from one crackhouse to another, fighting for scraps. That was why he looked so feral the first time we met.

Weston worked silently, scrubbing the grime off the neglected floors until the unit was spotless. I sprawled out on a peeling leather recliner, swaying slightly, eyeing the exposed pipes on the ceiling. I, Sloane, had never lifted a finger to clean a damn thing in my life. Weston, molded by the streets, knew how to survive.

I expected the rundown apartment to be a disaster, but the power grid completely dying on our first night alone together? That was a plot twist I didn't see coming. In the pitch black, I kicked his shin. "I want a shower."

Weston knew my routine. I needed to wash the dirt off every day, and a blackout wasn't going to stop me. He dug out a heavy-duty flashlight, flicked it on, and silently went to heat some water on the gas stove.

Once he finished filling a rusted iron tub with warm water, he turned on his heel to leave. I reached out, lazily hooking my finger through his belt loop. "Don't go. I'm terrified of the dark."

Chapter 3

Weston's broad back, illuminated only by the heavy flashlight in his grip, went rigid. The muscle definition beneath his shirt instantly locked tight in the dim light.

He whipped around, closing the distance between us with terrifying, predatory speed.

His voice was a harsh, gravelly rasp. "Sloane, you better know exactly what you're implying right now."

"I know." I unzipped my pleated skirt, letting it pool onto the rusted bathroom floor with a dismissive shrug. "I said I'm terrified of the dark."

The soft friction of fabric sliding off skin echoed in the dead-quiet room. Weston's chest heaved, his breathing hitching audibly. When he spoke again, the warning in his tone was razor-sharp. "Sloane!"

Tsk. Loud and clear, Weston. He acted so damn feral, but even towering right over me, his gaze was glued strictly to the peeling wallpaper above my head. He didn't dare move an inch.

I ran my fingers through my hair, utterly unfazed by his hostility. I grabbed a plastic pitcher, scooped up the warm water, and let it cascade over my bare shoulders. I had to hand it to himWeston knew exactly how I liked my water temperature.

But the moment the water splashed against my skin, I watched his Adam's apple bob frantically in the shadows. He was losing his mind.

I smirked.

He probably never expected me to actually strip down right in front of him. Ill admit, I'd been pushing his buttons relentlessly the past few days. He walked around constantly vibrating with repressed rage. But I was used to it.

After years of being chained to each other, Weston had never once smiled at me. Before the wedding, after the weddingit was always just Sloane, spat out like a curse. And honestly? It pissed me off.

Out in the backyard, Weston had stripped off his shirt and was elbow-deep in the engine of a beat-up Ford pickup. The bronze muscles of his back bunched and rippled violently with every twist of the wrench.

Motor oil and sweat mixed together, tracking down the hard ridges of his abs and radiating pure, suffocating testosterone. He looked dangerous, wild, and incredibly raw. His eyes held that same feral, brooding intensity.

The Weston from ten years in the future? Yeah, he would have eaten me alive in these mind games. But the Weston right in front of me was only nineteen. He was a prime, untouched cut of aggressiona stubborn, wild mustang who only knew how to kick and buck.

If I were actually an eighteen-year-old Sloane, I wouldn't have stood a chance against that hostility.

But I wasn't.

I strolled out to the truck, stopping right behind him before shamelessly pressing my front flat against his slick, sweaty back. I hooked my arms around his thick neck, leaning in to whisper right against his ear.

"Weston. I really hate it when you bark my name like I'm a suspect." I let out a soft, dramatic sigh.

"Why don't you ever call me something sweet? If you're struggling, 'baby' works just fine for me."

Weston's back turned to absolute steel against my chest. His right hand crushed a grease rag so hard the veins in his forearm looked ready to burst. He took a ragged pull of air and shot up to his full height. "Sloane!"

Here we go again. I ignored the warning, treating him like my own personal backpack.

I rubbed my cheek against his jawline, fully committed to tormenting him. "Come on, Weston. Be a good boy and beg for me. I'll buy you whatever you want."

Weston didn't dare touch my bare legs wrapped around his waist. He just gritted out another empty threat. "Sloane, don't push your luck!"

Sloane, don't mess with me. Sloane, you better behave. Sloane, don't push your luck.

The guy was a broken record. He only had those three lines in his entire arsenal. And I never listened to a damn word.

I locked my arms tighter around his neck, relentless. "Stop growling at me, Weston. I don't like it."

He gave me zero response. Look at him. Pissed off again. Refusing to put his hands on me to catch my weight, he just let me hang off him like a koala.

He marched us straight back inside the apartment. The second we hit the bedroom, he ruthlessly pried my fingers apart and tossed me onto the mattress. Zero gentleness. Fucking savage.

Chapter 4

Rolling around the mattress, bored out of my mind, I hooked a finger under the thin strap of my lace panties by the bed and tossed the flimsy fabric straight into his chest. My tone was dripping with entitlement. "Wash these too."

Weston caught the scrap of lace entirely on reflex. The moment he looked down and registered what was in his palm, a volatile mix of deep red and stark white washed over his face.

I batted my eyelashes, playing the innocent victim. "I can't touch cold water. You know that."

He swallowed hard. His jaw locked with enough force to crack a tooth, but he still spun around and obediently marched back toward the yard.

"Weston." I picked up a paperback from the nightstand, stopping him in his tracks.

Flipping open to the page I had dog-eared last night, I tossed out a casual, deadpan reminder. "Don't mix whatever you're holding in your left hand with my stuff."

I wrinkled my nose, my expression dead serious. "The smell you left behind last night is way too strong. I definitely don't want my clothes soaking in your rutting-season hormones."

"Sloane!" Weston whipped around in shock. A dark, angry flush crawled up his thick neck as he stared at me like I was insane. "Do you have zero shame?!"

Oh? Struck a nerve, did I? I tilted my head, my eyes dropping deliberately to the crumpled fabric in his left fist. "ActuallyI much prefer the way you look when you're not wearing any underwear at all."

Sure, going commando might be a little rough for a guy packing like him. But how was that my problem right?

Weston had been freezing me out for three days straight. Even though he still waited on me hand and foot like some devoted servant, pouring my drinks and catering to my demands, the second I opened my mouth, he would turn his back and walk away. Standing out in the yard, his posture was as rigid and unyielding as a steel rod. After years of our deeply intimate, intense physical sessions, I knew perfectly well that containing himself in anything was a massive injustice to his anatomy.

The thought made me lick my lips. I was getting a little hungry. So I called out to his broad back. "Weston."

Weston turned and walked away. This time, he bypassed the house and strode right out the front gate.

I rolled my eyes, sauntering over to the doorway. I peeked outside, but his tall, broad frame had already vanished down the cracked street. I didn't bother going back inside. Instead, I turned on my heel and headed for the yard next door.

The freckle-faced, brace-faced white girl from next door was sitting on her porch, messing with her skateboard. She looked up, spotted me, and excitedly blew a sharp whistle. "Hey, Sloane!"

Weston definitely didn't see this coming. If he wasn't going to entertain me, I'd easily find someone else who would. In the few short days he had been giving me the silent treatment, I had quickly bonded with the neighborhood girl, Cora. Cora was a trip, and she loved hanging out with me.

Obviously, we only did it when Weston wasn't hovering around.

The weather had been scorching lately, but this rundown river town had enough dense tree cover to keep it way cooler than the suffocating concrete heat of Manhattan. I tagged along with Cora and a crew of local girls to a trashed, graffiti-covered skatepark nearby. We threw back cheap cans of beer, and I even ended up laughing wildly while riding on the back of some guy's heavy motorcycle.

When I finally made it back to the apartment at dusk, the only thing waiting for me was Weston's explosive, unhinged fury.

Chapter 5

He blocked the doorway, his jaw tight enough to snap bone, staring at me with the kind of dark, consuming intensity that promised he wanted to devour me alive. "Sloane!"

I sauntered right past him, deliberately letting the hem of my skirt brush against his thick calves. I tossed my jacket onto the nearby chair with agonizing slowness, my tone dismissive. "What?"

Weston's expression darkened even further, but his voice dropped to a terrifyingly calm baseline. "Why did you run off without a goddamn word? Do you have any idea that I've been tearing the streets apart looking for you all afternoon?"

Why didn't I say a word? Because you walked out first. You run, I run. I gave a casual, careless "Oh," and turned my attention to fixing my hair in the reflection of the glass.

Weston snapped.

Before I could even turn around, his massive hand clamped around my wrist like a steel trap. He dragged me violently toward the bedroom. I stumbled blindly behind him, my heels scraping the floorboards, before he effortlessly hurled me onto the mattress.

One look at the sheer, unhinged ferocity radiating from his face, and my pulse spiked. I didn't hesitate, immediately scrambling backward toward the far corner of the bed. But Weston was infinitely faster. His large hand shot out, wrapping securely around my bare ankle, and he yanked me straight back under him.

Pinning both of my wrists with one hand, he wedged his heavy knee right between my thighs, completely locking me down. His voice was a harsh, vibrating snarl of pure rage.

"Sloane, do you have any fucking clue how dangerous this area is? Do you know what happens to rich girls who get snatched by the local gangs down here?! Do you want to end up locked in a shipping container, or sold off to the worst scum in the district?!"

I thrashed against his grip, only to realize I was entirely immobilized. I fully intended to spit out something rational like, I'm an adult, I can handle myself, but what actually shot out of my mouth was a venomous, "None of your damn business."

Weston let out a dark, breathless laugh. He nodded, a terrifyingly cold smile curving his lips. "Right. You're really something, Sloane."

The room spun dizzyingly. Before my brain could even register the movement, Weston ruthlessly flipped me over. He viciously pinned my hands above my head, pulling off his oil-stained tie to securely lash my wrists to the iron headboard. His massive, heavy frame covered me, crushing down with suffocating dominance as his teeth sank ruthlessly into my collarbone.

This was the first time in my life I had ever been physically overpowered and punished like this. And I never expected the man doing it to be Weston.

His raw strength was terrifying; I couldn't break free no matter how hard I twisted. I bit my lower lip hard, stubbornly refusing to beg for mercy. His teeth scraped and bit into my sensitive skin, relentlessly marking his territory without a shred of hesitation.

The searing pain and overwhelming pressure kept building until I finally broke, gasping his name out. "Weston it hurts."

My voice cracked, betraying a humiliating sob. I genuinely hadn't planned on crying. But the sheer intensity was too much. I couldn't hold it back.

Weston's ruthless assault abruptly stopped. He yanked the tie loose, freeing my wrists. I lay completely breathless against the tangled sheets. The red friction burns on my wrists from the tie stung fiercely, while the deep, bruising bite mark on my collarbone violently declared his completely unhinged possessiveness.

Hot tears silently hit the wrinkled bedsheets