Dark Obsession

Chapter 3

The rooftop is all glass and gold tonight: fake stars strung between real ones, laughter slipping out like smoke.

I hate parties. Always have.

I keep my back to the wall, fingers resting lightly on the slimline knife tucked under my jacket. Just in case. Always just in case.

“Ms. Blake,” my client’s assistant chirps, fake-smiling, handing me a flute of champagne I won’t drink. “Enjoy yourself. You’re off-duty.”

Right.

Off-duty doesn't exist for people like me.

I drift toward the edge, past clusters of bodies in designer armor. I’m invisible. That’s the point.

At least, I was, until I feel it.

The stare. Heavy. Direct. Not casual. Not polite.

I lift my eyes across the rooftop.

There he is.

Black suit. No tie. Shirt collar open just enough to whisper arrogance. A glass dangling from his fingers, untouched.

He watches me like he’s remembering something we haven't done yet.

And somehow, I freeze.

He doesn’t look away.

Most men do. They glance, second-guess, posture. Not him. He stares like he already knows the shape of my shadow. Like he’s been waiting for me to walk into this exact breath.

I should’ve looked past him. Through him.

I don’t.

And that’s the mistake.

The rooftop noise (glasses clinking, heels scraping tile, some pop remix vibrating through the speakers) fades into nothing.

All I hear is blood. Quiet and hot in my ears.

He takes a sip from his glass, still watching me over the rim.

I tilt my head slightly. Let the stare stretch just a bit longer than I should.

He smiles.

Not wide. Not innocent. The kind of smile that doesn’t offer peace—it dares you to come closer.

My spine says leave.

My feet don’t move.

One heartbeat. Two.

And somehow, the party disappears.

All that’s left is us.

And whatever this is.

He moves.

Not fast. Not showy. Just... deliberate. Like gravity bends around him differently.

One hand in his pocket. The other still holding that drink he hasn’t touched.

People part for him without realizing it. Like he’s not walking through the crowd. He’s cutting through fog.

He stops in front of me. Close enough to catch the faint scent of whatever he’s wearing (something dark, expensive, and completely wrong for a rooftop party).

“Long night?” he asks.

I glance at the glass in his hand. “You offering that?”

He raises it between us. “Only if you’re the kind of girl who accepts dangerous things from strangers.”

I don’t blink. “Only if I’m bored enough to be reckless.”

He leans in, slow. “Then we’re both in luck.”

He hands me the drink.

I take it.

Not because I’m thirsty.

But because something in me wants to burn.

And he feels like fire.

“I don’t usually drink with strangers,” I say, swirling the glass in my hand.

“You don’t look like you usually do anything,” he replies, watching me like I’m both puzzle and warning label.

I raise a brow. “You always this charming, or am I just lucky?”

He smirks. “Depends on how dangerous you are.”

I take a sip. Eyes on him. “Dangerous women don’t have to announce it.”

He steps closer. Just a fraction. Just enough for the air to tighten between us. “Neither do dangerous men.”

“So which are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He lets the silence stretch. It says more than a confession.

I shift my weight. He mirrors it, just enough to remind me this isn’t a conversation. It’s a test.

I try to stay steel. But he keeps talking in riddles that sound like truths. Truths that sound like dares.

And I hate that it’s working.

He leans in to say something but I shift to the side.

Too late.

His shoulder grazes mine.

Just a second too long to be casual.

I don’t step back. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

He hands me another drink, and when our fingers touch, it’s friction. Clean and electric. His thumb skims the edge of mine like he’s taking notes. Like he knew exactly where I’d reach.

“You’re not used to people getting this close, are you?” he murmurs.

“I’m used to people keeping their distance.”

He smiles like I just proved his point. “You’re still standing here.”

I want to say it’s tactical. Strategic. That I’m measuring him up.

But the truth is simpler.

I haven’t moved because I’m afraid of what will happen if I do.

Because every inch he closes… peels something back.

And I’m not sure how much more of me I’m willing to give.

Even in inches.

A hand brushes my arm (not his).

It’s Ramirez, one of the security consultants I’ve worked with before. Clean-cut. Married. Boring in a useful way.

“Eden,” he mutters, low enough that the music swallows most of it. “That man you’re talking to?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Jace Maddox.”

Ramirez lowers his voice further. “He’s trouble. I mean real trouble. Private contracts. Blacklisted ops. Intel says his company launders more than payroll.”

I glance over his shoulder.

Jace is still standing exactly where I left him. Hands in his pockets. Smiling.

That smile. That calm, calculated patience. Like he knew someone would try to warn me. Like he’s already won.

“I’ve got this,” I say quietly.

Ramirez hesitates. “Just... don’t get sloppy.”

“Do I ever?”

He walks off, tension in every step.

I don’t move.

Because Jace hasn’t looked away.

And something in me already decided…

I’m not going to either.

No attachments.

No slip-ups.

Not here. Not him.

I repeat it in my head like a code. Like a spell.

But spells break.

And mine is unraveling in the way my eyes keep finding him. In the heat that hasn’t left my skin since our fingers brushed.

I swallow hard. Try to reroute. Re-anchor.

Look at exits. Count cameras. Remember why I came.

But all of it feels like theater now. Like I’m rehearsing a role I don’t believe in tonight.

My pulse skips again.

Useless.

He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t said another word. Just stands there, watching me like I’m not a threat at all.

Like I’m a question he already knows the answer to.

Don’t.

Don’t be reckless.

Don’t let him in.

My hand tightens around the glass.

My pulse?

Still listening to him.

Not me.

And that terrifies me more than anything he could ever say.

I don’t hear him approach.

But I feel him.

Warm breath near my ear. The press of presence, just behind my right shoulder.

“You’re holding your breath,” he murmurs, his voice so close it skims the line between sound and skin.

I don’t move.

“Should I be flattered,” he continues, “or worried?”

I turn my head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re close. Too close. And lit with something slow and dangerous.

“I don’t flinch easy,” I say.

He smiles. Not amused, interested. “No. You burn slow.”

His tone is soft, but it lands like a match.

And I should step back. I know that.

But I don’t.

I step closer. Just enough to blur the line.

He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to.

Because the space between us stops existing.

And for one impossible moment, I’m not the one in control.

I’m not sure I hate it.

That’s the real problem.

One drink becomes two. I don’t even remember finishing the first.

He doesn’t ask questions. He makes statements. Observes. Offers shadows instead of light. And for reasons I can’t explain, I want to walk into them.

We talk, barely. A few lines. A few looks. A joke that shouldn’t have landed the way it did. His fingers brush mine again (accidental, probably). But nothing about him feels unintentional.

This isn’t seduction.

It’s gravity.

And I’m tired of resisting forces that make me feel something.

I lean on the bar, just slightly, the edge pressing into my ribs. It should ground me.

It doesn’t.

He leans, too. Mirroring me like we’re already synced.

“I should go,” I say, voice low.

“You won’t,” he replies, not cocky. Just... certain.

And he’s right.

Because I don’t want to leave untouched.

I want to know exactly what part of me he plans to unravel first.

Riley’s loft is a mess of glowing monitors and open Red Bull cans.

She’s halfway through tracing a security patch on Eden’s freelance contract when the screen flashes, a digital heartbeat in red.

Maddox Industries – PRIVATE SECURITY DIVISION // Data pinged on external trace.

Riley blinks. “Nope. No, no, no. What the hell is that.”

She slides her chair forward, fingers flying over keys. She’s fast, but not fast enough to catch it before it vanishes. Just a breadcrumb trail of encrypted heat.

She mutters to herself. “That’s not supposed to be in her radius. Why is he in her radius?”

Her heart kicks. Not fear. Not yet.

But a warning.

Riley leans back, eyes narrowing. “Who the hell is Jace Maddox?”

Her phone lights up with an alert.

Eden’s location: Rooftop Bar, Delano Tower.

She’s not scheduled for work tonight.

Riley doesn’t hesitate. She grabs her laptop, keys, and the burner phone.

“Okay, B. What did you just step into?”

The wind cuts across the rooftop like it’s warning him.

Marcus doesn’t flinch.

He stands at the edge of a neighboring high-rise, black coat snapping behind him, binoculars steady as a rifle. His gaze is locked on her. Eden, lit by string lights and dressed in a silence no one else sees.

She’s not alone.

His jaw tightens.

The man beside her, smiling like he already owns the room (and her pulse), is Jace Maddox. And Marcus has seen that smile before.

He lowers the binoculars. Dials a number on the burner in his coat pocket. No greeting. No breath wasted.

“It’s starting,” he says.

A pause.

“I don’t care what the schedule says. Move up the timeline. She’s not ready for him.”

Another pause. His voice drops.

“But neither was her mother.”

He ends the call. Slides the phone back into his coat.

And watches.

Because that’s all he can do, for now.

The Sterling House office is silent, by design.

Tobias sits in a leather chair that once belonged to his father, sipping aged bourbon with one hand, tapping his laptop with the other.

File Transfer: COMPLETE.

Two images flash on-screen.

EDEN BLAKE.

JACE MADDOX.

He smiles.

Not wide. Not warm. Just… satisfied. Like a man who laid the first card in a very expensive game.

He reclines slightly, steepling his fingers. “You always were reckless, little sister.”

He clicks once more. The file auto-forwards to an encrypted recipient labeled Camille.

He stands, moves toward the tall windows overlooking the courtyard. The city glows beneath him. Beautiful. Corrupt.

“Let the fire touch her skin,” he says softly, “and let’s see what she does when it starts to burn.”

The screen dims. The trap is already set.

Check.

But not checkmate.

Not yet.

He lifts the bourbon to his lips.

“Welcome home, Eden.”