Page 37 of Shared Obsession

My muscles coil, tension winding tight, pleasure sparking along every nerve. Dean’s voice drops to a rough, filthy command—“That’s right, there it is, fucking cum for me.” The words shatter me. His grip tightens around my throat just as I fall apart, cutting off my breath and making my vision blur at the edges. Black spots dance, my head goes light and dizzy, and the lack of oxygen sharpens everything—every sensation, every desperate pulse of my body as I explode around him. My body clamps down, trembling with release, my moans strangled and wild in my throat. Dean’s hips stutter, thrusting once, twice more, and then a guttural “fuuuuck” is ripped from his chest as he cums, his grip slowly loosening from my throat. Air rushes in, the world spinning. He carries me over to the bed, and we collapse together, tangled and shaking, the echoes of the moment reverberating through us both.

Dean

We are lying together in the hush of Ayla’s room, her breath warm on my chest, her body curled tight against me. I stroke her back, slow and gentle, memorizing the feeling of her pressed to my side. I breathe in the sweet scent of her hair, let it settle over me, and try to hold onto this fragile peace—because I know it could be gone in an instant. For the first time in ages, I actually feel safe. I don’t want to sleep, not really; I just want to remember the weight of her, the way her hand curls unconsciously against my chest, the sound of her breath as it evens out. I never thought I’d get this again—a girl in my arms, a moment of stillness, a future I might actually want. I let my mind wander: I want to keep her here, keep her safe, keep Zayn and Alex close. But the fear is still there, always there, at the edges—what if I lose this? What if someone takes her away, or I wake up and this was just a dream? I tighten my hold on her, whispering a silent promise into the dark: I won’t let anything happen to you, Ayla. Not if I can help it. Not ever. For a precious moment, it feels like nothing can touch us—and I want to believe it’s true. My eyelids are heavy, and sleep is just inches away, when a sharp, echoing bang jolts me fully awake. My heart leaps—Ayla doesn’t stir, but every nerve in my body goes live. Another bang. My mind races—Alex and Zayn are still gone. It hasn’t been long enough for them to be home. Has it?

I ease out of bed, careful not to wake Ayla. She’s curled up, cheeks still flushed from sleep, so small and peaceful it makes me ache. I pull on my sweats, heart thudding, nerves jangling. Something feels wrong—off, like the air itself is holding its breath. I realize with a jolt that I left my knife in my own room. Cursing under my breath, I slip next door and grab it, my pulse pounding in my ears. Every instinct is screaming—danger, move, now.

The cabin is pitch dark as I creep down the stairs, every step heavier than the last. Shadows stretch and shift, the old wood groaning beneath my weight. My palms are slick, my mouth dry as I scan the kitchen—nothing, no movement, just the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the clock. Then, without warning, the kitchen light blazes on, blinding me.

A strong arm yanks me back, crushing me in a chokehold. My startled yell rips through the house, echoing up the stairwell. Suddenly Ayla is in the hallway at the top of the stairs, her face white with confusion and terror, eyes huge and pleading. My heart shatters. I thrash against the grip, adrenaline surging, but whoever’s holding me is strong, unyielding.

A voice, slick and cold as oil, slides right into my ear: “Hey, princess. Did you forget Daddy will always find you?” Charles. Every muscle in my body goes rigid with rage and terror. “Stay the fuck away from her!” I snarl, slamming my elbow back, breaking his hold for a split second. I launch myself at him, knife flashing, but he’s faster than I expect. Charles just laughs, low and chilling, his face twisted in a mockery of warmth. “So protective, boy. How sweet. Shame no one ever taught you that you can’t keep what isn’t yours, and Ayla isn’t yours.”

He dodges, the blade slicing empty air. Ayla screams, the sound splintering my heart. “Dean, look out!” she cries, voice raw with panic.

I spin, just in time to see a second man—tall, broad, eyes dead and full of malice— who I can only assume is Nathan. The glint of a gun, raised, catching the kitchen light. “Ayla, run!” I shout, desperate, but pain explodes in my skull—a white-hot, splitting agony as the butt of the gun cracks down on my forehead. My vision tunnels, the world tilting. Through the blur, I see Ayla—her face crumpling, tears streaking down her cheeks as Charles grabs her by the wrist, yanking her towards her room. I force my lips to move, blood filling my mouth. “I love you, Ayla. Don’t let him break you. I love you—”

But the words are swallowed by darkness as I crash headlong into the kitchen counter. Her scream is the last thing I hear before everything cuts to black.

Chapter Twenty

Zayn

We picked up everything we thought we’d need—shampoo for Ayla (I spent way too long sniffing bottles, hoping she’d like the one I chose), boxes of ammo, pepper spray, and a couple of tasers. I even grabbed her favorite snacks—sweet-and-salty trail mix, kettle chips, those sour gummies she always steals from my stash—plus some chocolate bars, protein bars, and extra batteries. Every item was a promise: we’re thinking of you, we’ve got you, even if we’re barely holding it together ourselves. I wanted her to feel cared for, to know she’s not alone, that we’d thought of every little comfort that might make her smile, even if just for a moment.

The whole ride back, I’m relaxed—cruising the backroads with Alex, the wind in our faces, half-laughing through our helmets about the ridiculous haul we’ve got in our backpacks. There’s a rare lightness between us. For once, I’m not worried. I let myself believe the worst is behind us, at least for now. Right?

But the second we roll up the drive, that fragile peace shatters. The kitchen light is still on—strange, this late. The front door is cracked open, barely hanging on its hinges. My whole body goes cold, a sick dread knotting my stomach. I barely have time to process before panic floods my veins. The living room is dark, silent—too silent. “Dean? Ayla?” I call, my voice suddenly hoarse, but the house swallows the words. There’s no answer—just a suffocating emptiness. Alex falls in behind me, tension radiating off him in waves. My hands shake as I move toward the kitchen, every instinct screaming that something has gone terribly, irreversibly wrong.

And then I see him. Dean is sprawled on the kitchen floor, a pool of blood spreading out beneath his head, so much blood I can’t believe he’s still breathing. For a split second, the world slips out from under me—like I’m falling, lost, my lungs crushed flat. I scream his name, a raw, animal sound that rips out of me, echoing off the walls. My knees slam into the slick, bloody tile, pain shooting up my legs, but I barely register it. All that matters is Dean—Dean, who is bleeding out right in front of me.

I grab him, cradling his head in my lap, my hands trembling so violently I can barely hold him. His skin is cold, his lips already tinged blue, and his breaths are shallow and ragged—barely there at all. Panic chokes me. My mind races, every nightmare I’ve ever had coming true right here, right now. What if I’m too late? What if this is the last time I’ll ever see him alive? All the things I should have said, all the ways I failed him—every regret piles on until I feel like I’m suffocating. His eyelids flutter but never open. My palms are slick with his blood as I stroke his jaw, press frantic kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, anywhere I can reach—desperate, pleading, panicked. My sobs break loose, wild and broken, the sound of them unrecognizable in my own ears. Panic claws at my throat, and I taste salt and copper and pure, animal fear.

“Please, Dean, wake up. Please, I love you, please—don’t leave me. You can’t leave me. I need you. I need you.” The words spill out of me, a frantic litany of terror and loss.

Devastation crushes me. It’s a weight so heavy I can barely breathe. My thoughts are a storm: What if he dies? What if he slips away right now and I can’t stop it? What if I’m not enough to keep him here? I’m sobbing, shaking, clutching him as if the force of my love alone could anchor him to the world. The blood on my hands is everywhere—slick, hot, a nightmare I can’t wake up from. I rock him, begging him to stay with me, to come back, to not do this, not now. I whisper his name again and again, my voice strangled with panic, the nightmare closing in. The fear is so sharp it’s like glass in my chest—shattering me, leaving me hollow and desperate. I can’t lose him. I can’t. The pain is an avalanche—unbearable, relentless, no air, no hope, just the sickening certainty that I’m about to lose everything that matters. I hold him, sobbing, praying, not sure who I’m begging—God, fate, the universe—just desperate for a miracle.

Alex crashes to the floor beside me, his phone clattering as he fumbles for 911. His voice is high and wild with panic: “Fuck, fuck—911, we need paramedics, there’s been a break-in, a man is bleeding—” I barely hear him, the roar in my ears drowning out everything but Dean’s shallow, fragile breaths. “Zayn, have you seen Ayla?” Alex’s voice breaks, terror lacing every word. I can’t answer him. “Ayla!” he shouts, but there’s nothing. No answer. The silence is a tomb, and all I can do is clutch Dean, tears and blood streaking my face, desperate for him to stay alive. “Please, Dean. I love you. Please.” My whole world has shrunk to this—Dean’s weight in my arms, the terror of watching him slip away, the helplessness of knowing I can’t do anything except hold on.

Alex’s hand finds my back, rubbing frantic, shaky circles, his other hand gripping my shoulder like he’s trying to hold us both together. I’m sobbing into Dean’s hair, refusing to let go, refusing to believe this is the end. Sirens wail in the distance, drawing closer, the lights outside starting to strobe through the windows—red and blue panic painting the room. Paramedics burst in, shouting instructions, kneeling beside us, moving with terrifying speed. I hear them say, “critical,” “low blood pressure,” “unresponsive”—and every word is another knife in my chest.

I’m shaking so hard I can barely breathe as they check Dean’s vitals, lift him from my lap, and start hooking him up to wires and monitors. Blood is smeared everywhere—my hands, my jeans, my arms. I’m gasping, fighting for air, the world spinning. They slip a neck brace around him, their faces grim, voices tight. I scramble into the ambulance beside him, refusing to let go, grabbing his hand like it’s the only thing keeping me alive. The world blurs with sirens and lights, the doors slamming shut. I look through the window and see Alex—his face torn, devastated, lips moving as he yells, “I’ve gotta look for Ayla. Keep me updated, please!” The fear in his eyes—raw, helpless—nearly breaks me. He’s torn in two, desperate to save us both. The ambulance jolts forward, lights and sirens screaming into the night, and I cling to Dean’s cold hand, panic and heartbreak crashing through me, praying with everything I have that this isn’t the last goodbye.

Alexander

I watch the ambulance pull away, frozen in place, heart pounding so loud I can barely think. For one long, paralyzed moment, everything inside me just… stops. Dean tried to protect her, and it might have cost him his life. I should have protected them both. Guilt and anger claw through me, hot and relentless.

Suddenly, I snap back to reality, adrenaline flooding in. I tear through the house, screaming “Ayla!” over and over, the echo of her name ragged and desperate in the empty rooms. I know there’s no point, but I can’t stop. She’s not here. They got to her. Panic pulses in my veins as I sprint to her room. The sight guts me—furniture overturned, blankets half-hanging off the bed, the chaos of a struggle written everywhere. My stomach turns to ice. There are blood drops spattering the floor, leading out to the stairs. Dread and rage twist inside me until I can hardly breathe.

Shaking, I grab my phone and open the security camera app, praying for answers. The footage loads, and I force myself to watch, every muscle locked and trembling. The kitchen is dark—then, suddenly, the light flicks on. Dean stands there, confused, and in the next instant, Charles is behind him, a cruel smile twisting his mouth. Dean whirls, knife in hand, and throws himself at Charles, rage and desperation in every move. They struggle—Dean fighting with everything he has, yelling at Ayla to run, his voice fierce and terrified. Ayla’s scream—“Dean, look out!”—cuts through the speakers. Before Dean can get the upper hand, Nathan steps out of the shadows, raises the gun, and cracks Dean in the head with the butt. The sound is sickening—a sharp thud, blood dripping from his head. Through the speaker, I hear Dean’s broken, desperate plea: “Ayla, run—don’t let him break you,” before his knees give out, head hitting the counter, and he drops to the floor.

My chest goes hollow. Charles, satisfied, turns to Ayla, his voice curling through the speakers: “Princess.” The word makes bile crawl up my throat. Dean is out cold, helpless, as Charles grabs Ayla and drags her into her room. Nathan follows, and Ayla’s screams echo through the audio—raw, terrified, shattering. My hands are shaking so badly that I almost drop the phone. I know what’s happening behind that closed door. I know. My heart shatters into a million pieces, and the sobs just rack through me, body breaking under the weight of it. But I can’t look away. I keep watching, desperate, hollow, ruined.

Eventually, the door opens. Ayla’s head is bleeding, her body limp, no longer conscious as Charles lifts her in his arms. Nathan hovers, a shadow behind him. The last words I hear make me want to vomit: “Let’s go, my princess.” As I watch them carry her out of the cabin, something inside me snaps—I scream, a raw, wounded animal sound, pain and fury exploding out of me into the empty house. I slam my fists against the table, the desk, anything within reach, but it’s useless. I promised her I wouldn’t let them take her. I promised Dean and Zayn we could do this. And now… I’ve failed them all. All I can do is sob, broken and helpless, and pray for the strength to put the pieces back together—because I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do next.

Once I begin to calm, I stand and stare at the useless security screens and technology around me, cursing myself for never learning what Dean could do so easily. I’m good with tech and coding, but hacking cameras and files, and pulling footage from anywhere. All that illegal shit. That was always Dean. I’m helpless without him, and the weight of that hits me like a fist to the gut. My hands shake as I pull out my phone and call Zayn, desperate for anything, anyone, but it goes straight to voicemail. My fear is a living thing now, clawing at my insides, making it hard to breathe.

I can’t sit still. Panic and dread drive me to throw on a shirt and jacket, barely get my shoes on before I’m out the door. I swing onto my bike, adrenaline drowning out any care for rules or safety, weaving through traffic with reckless abandon. The whole ride is a blur of horns, rain, and the bone-deep terror that I might already be too late. I barrel into the hospital, breathless, wild-eyed, searching until I find Zayn in the waiting room, his clothes still stained with Dean’s blood. I can barely get the words out—“Is he…”—my voice cracking, the question unfinished because I can’t bear to say it.