Deadly Obsession by Jaycee Clark

me," he said, his breath warm on her face.
    She heard him moving around the room.
    "Do you know how long I’ve waited for this, Josephine? How very long I’ve planned our meeting?" His voice arrowed to her, a fine cutting edge evident.
    "People were constantly asking questions on why you disappeared."
    He was pacing. He’d only paced before when he’d been enraged. And enraged, he was so much worse. So much.
    Oh, God. The bands in her chest tightened, but she held them back. She couldn’t have an attack now.
    Please not now.
    "Your grandparents and brother tried to file murder charges on me. Me! As though I were no one." He continued to mumble and pace, but his words gave her courage. Joshua? Grandmiere? Granddaddy?
    They’d believed in her, even if they’d known nothing, they’d blamed him. If she could have, she would have smiled.
    Christian had no idea how much time passed. He continued to pace and once he went downstairs. What he was doing, she couldn’t begin to guess. Then she heard her piano, the tiny ping as he hit a high note, then the lower base notes following. Chopin. She hated Chopin because the composer was a favorite of his.
    She pulled and jerked and tugged on the ropes, but it did no good. The more she moved, the more she focused, the more she could think. The sluggish feel of the drug was thinning. Her wrists were sticky when the piano silenced and she heard his footsteps coming back.

    What was she going to do? What?
    What about Drayson? Geoffery? Were they at home? No one was here to help her. No one. It would be hours before Brayden came looking. God, she’d been so stupid, so perfectly stupid. All but setting herself up. She should have told Brayden. She wouldn’t be tied to a bed now if she had just talked to him.
    And Gabe?
    Gabe. He was expecting her at six. Six. What time was it?
    Footsteps hushed across the carpet to the bed. Christian stiffened.
    "You’re hair is the wrong color," he whispered furiously. "This can’t be right! What..." he trailed off. She heard a slap. "Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Too red, damn it." Then he yelled, "Blonde. Your hair is supposed to be blonde! Not this trashy tarnished color."
    She jerked at his raised voice and pressed herself into the mattress as she heard him near the bed.
    Something cold slid onto her chest, his hands on either side of her face. He jerked her head up, and she felt the pull of metal along her neck. The locket.
    "You were supposed to have this on. I found it in your purse downstairs." Carefully, he worked the chain around and settled the locket between her breasts. He jerked on her hair, muttering to himself. She felt the mattress rise as he moved away. The squeak of her closet doors filled the air. What did he want in her closet? Who cared. As long as he stayed away from her. Mutters and mumbles lost their way to her.
    Tearing material, the slice of fabric rent the air.
    "I don’t like the looks of your clothes, Josephine, anymore than your hair. Don’t know what happened.
    Red. Cheap. You look cheap." His words were hurried and clipped.
    He was cutting her clothes. He’d done that before too. That last night. He figured if she had nothing to wear, she couldn’t leave. And she wouldn’t have, if Susan hadn’t shown up and helped her. Susan.
    Danny.
    Oh, God.
    Rips and tears mixed with his furious whispers and curses to her. "Whore’s clothes ... trashy ... what were you thinking?"
    Wood moaned on wood. Her dresser. The same ritual happened there. The rustle of material, the jerk of drawers, the slicing click of scissors. Finally, silence settled and it was more terrifying than the sound of bladed objects cutting her things.
    What was he doing? Where was he?
    She could hear his breath, hurried and fast.

    Something sharp poked her chest and she froze.
    "Did you know I was advised you should have an accident?" he told her quietly. "You probably will, you know. Eventually, you’ll have to. You’re rather a liability." His