“They said it was because of a boy,” I whispered. “Because I got too attached. I didn’t understand boundaries. I couldn’t let go.” My laugh came out thin and cracked. “They gave me all these labels. OLD. OCD. BPD. Attachment disorder. Like they needed names to make sense of me.”
I finally met his eyes again, desperate for him to understand. “But this—” I pressed a shaking hand against my chest. “This isn’t that. I swear it’s not.”
I took a step closer. “With you, it’s different. I don’t feel broken when I think about you. I feel alive. You make everything quiet. You make everything make sense.”
My voice dropped so low that I wasn’t sure he could hear it. “My mother…my doctors…They all call this wrong. But I know they’re wrong. There’s nothing wrong with being obsessed with the love of your existence.”
He cocked his head, watching me like he was trying to decide what kind of creature I was. The weight of his silence pressed down until I thought I might shatter just to fill it.
“Please,” I whispered finally. “Say something.”
He didn’t. His jaw worked once, like he was biting back every word that wanted out.
The quiet between us roared.
“I know you probably want to run,” I whispered. “And maybe you should.” My chest rose too fast, my pulse fluttering against my throat. “But I don’t know if I can let you go.”
He exhaled roughly. “Fuck.” The word suddenly tore out of him, and then he was shoving his sweatpants down in one violent yank, his cock springing free, thick, flushed, already leaking.
My eyes went wide. I watched as he fisted himself—once, twice—eyes locked on me, blazing and ravenous.
And then hecame.
Heavy, white bursts shooting out, splattering the sheets on my bed. Some hit the waistband of his sweatpants, dripping down the fabric, marking it, too.
I stood frozen, mouth open, shock and heat flooding me all at once.
He groaned, hips jerking, milking every drop, continuing to paint my bed with his release.
When he finally stilled, breath heaving, cock still in hand, he looked at me…
Not with disgust.
Not with fear.
Withhunger.
“Get over here, Ophelia,” he growled. “You think you’re the only one who’s obsessed?”
CHAPTER 33
OPHELIA
My mouth fell open before I could stop it. “Are you…are you saying?—”
He didn’t even let me finish. “I’m saying,” he said, “I love everything about you. Everything anyone else would say is fucked-up or obsessive. I think it’s beautiful…perfect. The best thing anyone’s ever done.”
I just stared at him, the words tumbling around in my head without landing anywhere that made sense. My chest ached so hard I was a little afraid I was having a heart attack. He pushed off the bed, sweatpants still low on his hips, cum-stained sheets twisted behind him. His eyes, bright and almost fevered-looking…never left mine as he stalked toward me.
“I love every single thing about you,” he said, like he was confessing a sin and a prayer at once. “Every photo. Every notebook. Every stolen sock. Every second you watched me sleep. It’s the hottest,bestthing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Tears welled up before I could stop them, slipping down my cheeks in hot streaks. I couldn’t understand it…how he wasn’t angry, how he wasn’t already gone.
He reached out, not quite touching me, his hand hovering like he was afraid I might vanish if he did. “I don’t know how Ididn’t see you before,” he said softly. “But once I did? That was it. Game over.”
Something inside me cracked wide open.
Matty held my gaze, his eyes unflinching. “You think you’re the only one who’d do crazy things to keep the person they love?” He smiled then, and it seemed dangerous, full of something that looked like…everything I’d ever wanted from him.
