Wicked Obsession Read online

  Wicked Obsession

  Celia Crown

  Copyright © 2019 by Celia Crown

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are from the author's imagination or folklore, legends, and general myths.

  The book or any portion of the book may not be reproduced or used under any circumstances, except with the written permission from the author. Public names, movies, televisions, and locales, or any references are used for atmospheric purposes. Any similarities and resemblances to alive or dead people, events, brands, and locales are all complete coincidences.

  For inquiries: [email protected]

  Cover Editor: Designrans

  Editor: Syeda Erum Fatima Naqvi

  Contents

  Wicked Obsession

  WARNING

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Author’s other works!

  Follow the Author

  Wicked Obsession

  by Celia Crown

  Stephanie

  I don’t have anything and I’m alone in the world, bouncing from one shelter to another. Working at a local café and trying to survive as an eighteen-year-old adult.

  Then, I met Victor Sloan.

  A frighteningly powerful man, a Senator in Washington D.C.

  He’s the kindest man and he made it clear that he is someone I can trust. He hasn’t done anything to me to make me question his offer of offering me a room in his big home.

  A gentle giant in a warrior’s body.

  Victor

  Lying is second nature to a politician and I have no remorse doing so. I will use deception to get what I want, and I want that young little girl.

  So innocent, so trusting, and completely alone in a world filled with wolves in sheep clothing.

  A little manipulation has her entering my home, and she’s too naïve to know the lurking danger around every corner.

  She only needs me, I can provide everything for her as long as she is mine.

  I will make her mine if I have to use force.

  She is meant to be my obedient little girl.

  WARNING : This contains sensitive material that will be triggering to some, reader discretion is advised. Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, and Stockholm Syndrome.

  Chapter One

  Stephanie

  Thunder roars above my head, ringing its echoes in my ears as it sends a wave of vibration around my body. I shiver with my arms crossed over the backpack in front of my chest to shield my soaked body from the wind.

  The rain had been a constant reminder of spring time, and I almost always get rained on after I get off from work.

  Being a homeless eighteen-year-old girl fresh out of the foster care system is harsh when I have to work as a barista at a local café and try to find a new home every month as the shelters only have a rotation of one month per person.

  It’s been three months, and the last two shelters had been better than the first one where the foster family of a large group of children dropped me off. The homes are cleaner and with better staffs along with volunteers, but it’s over five miles from where I work.

  I can’t afford to quit the job because I need the money for food and I want to save up so that I can rent an apartment and find a roommate to split the rent in this expensive city of Washington D.C.

  I sneeze into my backpack. The wait for the bus is freezing me as my clothes are soaked down to my skin. I hope that what little clothes I have in my backpack aren’t wet; my backpack is my entire life.

  There’s nothing that I need to drag with me to a new home, and I’m glad I don’t have much. It’s a hassle to try to save and protect my belongings from other homeless people living in the shelter.

  I use the free gym near all the shelters to shower since it’s less crowded and less complicated than the hierarchy in the homes.

  Then I would walk to work as bus tickets are expensive, and I could use the leg work since being a barista requires me to be on my feet a lot. I take up on multiple shifts if available as more money means I get to leave the homes sooner.

  Another sneeze wrecks my body.

  I usually walk back to the shelters, but today is just not my day. I can’t be sick and miss work, and my body is already pushing it with the shivers.

  There is a ninety percent chance I’m coming down with a cold, and with a prayer, I hope I can manage it with some medicine in my backpack from months ago.

  “Love?”

  My eyes widen at that undeniably sexy and deep voice; it’s the voice that keeps haunting me in my dreams that force me to breathe because I would wake up from deep sleep, burning from inside out.

  I jerk my head up to the man in his very clean suit. He had a kind smile that causes me to blush.

  He stands tall; an air of superiority and dominance radiating over his massive form under that three-piece suit. My mouth dries at his roguishly-handsome face, tugging on my heart with his gentle green eyes.

  Mr. Victor Sloan.

  I swallow on the lump in my throat and shoot up from the bench as the heavy rain patters above the protective shield of the bus stop.

  “M-Mr. Sloan!” I stutter, my voice cracks distressingly as my cheeks flush with redness.

  The first time I met him was when I was still within the first week of my first shelter home, trying to get a hold of my life and my surroundings when he came in with his beautiful assistant and two bodybuilder-sized bodyguards.

  He was one of the donors to the shelter, and I overheard some of the staffs swooning over his looks. I managed to get some information about him. Mr. Sloan was in the area for a meeting and thought he could come in and personally inspect the shelter home.

  I didn’t remember how he came up to me or what he had said, but he was there with that gorgeous smile that almost blinded me with its brilliance. He was the one who helped me secure the job at the café, and I was ever grateful for his help.

  Then, he would show up at other shelters where I rotated.

  It’s a complete coincidence that he is at my shelter home almost every day despite his busy schedule as a senator of the state. I knew he was important by his clothing and mannerism, but his status shocked me.

  Mr. Sloan is too important.

  “What are you doing out this late?” he drops the umbrella that he is holding to his side and a few drops of rain falls on his black suit.

  “Oh!” I blab quickly, “Waiting for the bus.”

  His big warm hand cups my cold cheek and wipes the water from my skin. I choke a squeak as I tremble from either the contrasting temperature or because of him.

  “What about you, Mr. Sloan?” I ask, the corner of my lips twitch.

  He makes me utterly nervous; the level of anxiety I have when I see him goes through the roof because he is just too perfect.

  From his thousand-dollar suit and impeccable hair, there is nothing out of place on him, and I wonder why he would talk to someone who isn’t exactly the brightest. I would be what other people call nasty and gross, probably ridden with disease because I’m homeless.

  Mr. Sloan doesn’t see me like that.

  Well, he doesn’t outright say anything. He’s a well-educated man and has a reputation for being the most eligible bachelor that ever existed in the history. I don’t blame his assistant for always giving me the stink-eye; I’d want his attention to myself too and kiss those lips
.

  That’ll never happen, I tell myself as I clench my backpack tighter.

  “I am going home,” he said.

  A small, envious part of me wants to have a place to call my own.

  He must have a home bigger than the entire shelter. His money and status guarantee him a certain amount of wealth and security. The situation seems weird since he is by himself in front of me with his car parked in the spot reserved for buses.

  He is the senator; I think the city can forgive him.

  “Um,” I shuffle my feet; the tennis shoe is another donated piece of clothing that was given to me.

  “Goodnight,” I whisper slowly as I duck my head and take a step back with the intention of sitting down on the bench again.

  His warm hand leaves my cheek, but he doesn’t drop it and use his long arm to put his hand on the small of my back. There is no way of holding back the shiver that is running down to my toes, and I wrinkle my nose to prevent the sneeze from coming out.

  “I cannot allow you to be out here alone, love,” his smile is unarming.

  I shake my head, my own smile playing softly on my lips. “The bus is almost here.”

  “Please.” Mr. Sloan steps forward, his deep scent engulfs me. “Let me help you.”

  I open my mouth and shut it. Hesitation clouds me as I purse my lips.

  “I don’t want to trouble you,” I murmur, peaking at him through my lashes.

  He nudges me to his car and raises the wet umbrella over our heads. My shoulder bumps into his chest, and I pray he doesn’t feel the tremor in my body, and it’s at this distance that I realize just how big he is.

  His height towers over mine, absorbing my own shadow with his as his slight push on my back forces my feet to take one step towards his fancy, black car.

  “You will never inconvenience me, Stephanie.”

  He purred my name; I just know it.

  “How can I stand here and not raise a hand to help you when you are alone, cold, and in the dark. I cannot forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

  That sounds awfully intimate, but I shrug it off as him being passionate about this city and its citizens. I wish everyone was like him, kindhearted and giving to those in need.

  “I’m wet,” I say, looking down on my dark grey shirt that is supposed to be light grey. “It’ll ruin your car.”

  He cracks the door open with his key remote, and it’s one of the fanciest cars I have ever seen as it is mostly electronic. An electric car means the water in my clothes will probably electrocute me, or worse, hurt him too.

  “I-I don’t—” I turn to him and words die down abruptly.

  His green eyes darken significantly, and that smile on his lips puts my heart on an edge. Something is off about his demeanor, and I don’t know what to think about it, but he is a good man. That part I know because he has helped me more times than I can count.

  “Love,” he starts, “You are more important than a car.”

  “It’s an expensive car,” I weakly defend.

  “You are priceless,” he counters back smoothly, and my cheeks become red again.

  I’m flustered when I get ushered into the passenger side, and I sit stiffly until I feel his black suit fall on my lap, hiding my shaking arms and wet backpack. The door shuts, and my eyes follow his crisp white button-up clad body round the front of the car to make it to the driver side in large steps.

  My heart races in my ribs, blood smacking in my eardrums as I refuse to move an inch when my body bounces from his weight being dropped in the seat.

  I hear his deep laugh in my ears, and I resist the urge to whine at my untidy appearance.

  His big hand brushes away the wet strands of my hair from my forehead, and I stop myself from rubbing my head on his palm.

  “There is no need to be so frightened of me, Stephanie,” he reminds, “You know me.”

  Not really, but I don’t want to take his kindness for granted so I nod my head.

  Mr. Sloan reaches over to my body and yanks the seatbelt over his suit jacket until it clicks by my hip. He leans back into his seat and starts the car; the engine is a smooth purr as it comes to life with lights surrounding us.

  My eyes linger on the complicated parts by his side before I settle my sight on the slight ink peeking from his pure white shirt.

  When he zooms down the streets, they become less compacted and the houses become more spread out for privacy. My eyes follow the street signs and all of them are foreign to me; this part of the city is not allowed for a commoner like me to step in to.

  I turn to him, a rising panic blooming in my thundering chest that rivals the rolling roars in the dark skies.

  “Mr. Sloan?” I squeak.

  He huskily says my name, and it’s not fair how much power he holds over me, “Call me Victor.”

  “That—”

  He cuts me off while he makes it to a gated community, “I want you to call me Victor.”

  The guard at the gate steps out from his booth and peers into the car. His eyes find me before they go to the driver. He smiles and greets Mr. Sloan with a professional nod before stepping back into his booth to open the gate.

  I turn to the window by me and look back at the closing gate.

  “The shelter is not safe anymore,” he said, catching my attention by mentioning my temporary home.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, confusion and fear layering into my tone.

  He drives further down the path of residential homes that are beautiful and no doubt more expensive than this car.

  “There have been attacks around the shelter,” he leaves the explanation simple and vague.

  “Attacks?” I bite back a squeal of fright.

  I knew that big cities aren’t safe, but I never really thought about my safety since I was so worried about the next temporary home and working to save money.

  “Yes, but do not worry,” he turns to give me a reassuring smile, and my body naturally calms with a magical effect.

  “I will protect you.”

  Mr. Sloan goes deeper into the lit path where the homes are sparser, and I am soon mesmerized by the biggest house in the neighborhood. It has another gate of its own and another set of guards just outside in their booths.

  The time I get to admire the foundation and structure that created this amazing house is short as the car is already in front of the ginormous estate. Then we’re going down on a pitch black pace that lights up with a motion sensor.

  It lights up and my suspicion is correct. The garage has his collection of cars all lined up with a sleek sheen over them. I want to run my hands into the paint and feel the smoothness.

  Mr. Sloan gets out first. My hands are fumbling through his suit jacket as I struggle to hold the piece of clothing and my backpack. The sturdy bag that he had gifted me for all my things is the most practical thing I own, and the backpack is helpful in my daily travels from work to the shelter.

  “Come, love,” he said, curling his long fingers around my arm and helping me out of the leather cushion.

  “Mr. Sloan, I can go back to the shelter.” My protest is ignored as he takes my backpack and puts his jacket onto my shoulders.

  I look awkward with the wide shoulders, but at least the warmth gets rid of the goosebumps on my arms.

  “I don’t want to intrude your home.”

  He turns to me, standing close and tall to dwarf my shivering frame. His hands cup my cheek to turn my face so I look him in his green eyes. It’s that exact moment that I come to a realization; I’m alone with him and miles from the city.

  There is no protection and no help from the brewing darkness in his green hues.

  I still feel safe in his presence, and it’s an odd conflict without a solution in my mind.

  “You will be safe with me.”

  I cock my head in confusion.

  He presses his hot palm on my racing pulse in my neck, “Simply do as I say, and you will not be harmed.”

  I don’
t know if that’s a threat or a promise of protection.

  Chapter Two

  Victor

  My little, beautiful Stephanie.

  She’s all alone in the world with no friends and no family to help her survive.

  She’s too innocent, too young to be by herself in a city of wolves walking in sheep clothing. She must be protected at all cost, and if I have to lie, then I will do so and bear all future consequences on my shoulders.

  Stephanie is terrified. I can see it in her doe-like eyes. But her eyes are begging me to save her, pleading me to keep her in this fortress of a home.

  Three months ago, I met her in that filthy home when my public relations manager suggested I show support to the less fortunate. I failed to see the relevance of my terms as a senator to be concerned with the homeless population; they are not the ones I have any worries of.

  Yes, they are in need of help, and I did help them. However, my motives were to build more shelters rather than to build relations with them. That was before I laid eyes on my pure sweetheart and her pretty blonde hair, but what got me was her sunshine smile in that gloomy place.

  It was hard not to sweep her into my arms and run back home to lock her into my room. I want to find out how to keep that smile on her face.

  She is small, most likely from the lack of nutrition from her foster home and the shelters. Inadequate care and stressful environment cause her growth to become secondary as survival takes over. Her records are as plain as it can get.

  I had her files pulled the day I met her. Her birth certificate listed both parents to be in prison for drug offenses. She’s been in and out of different group homes with no one willing to adopt such a sweetheart.

  Last notable thing on her record is that she turned eighteen three months ago.

  She just brushed pass the legal age to be an adult.

  It also means she can legally be mine.

  I went back to the shelter the day after with a gift in my hands. The gift is out of the kindness of my own heart, but I had ulterior motives. The backpack I gifted her had a GPS tracker and a microphone stashed in the lining of its straps; they are for her safety and for the sake of my growing obsession.