Sinful Obsession: Chapter 7

Three endless, suffocating days had passed, and I was still trapped in this godforsaken house.

No maids bustling through the halls, no guards patrolling the perimeter, no one to break the oppressive stillness. Just me, the flicker of a muted television, and these cold, unyielding walls.

Isolation pressed down on me until even silence felt like it had weight.

The only small relief was that the stupid ring my captor had burned into my finger was finally gone.

The procedure was agonizing, a searing pain that left me biting back tears, but the relief of its absence is a small victory.

My finger, still tender and wrapped in a bandage, throbs faintly as a reminder of what I’ve endured.

I’ve scoured every corner of this house for answers, for a way out, for something.

I had also tried using the house computer to search for Ethan—the same Ethan Cassian had mentioned three nights ago during our heated conversation—but nothing came up. Not a face, not even a trace. I didn’t know what he looked like, where he lived, or if he was even real anymore.

How long was I supposed to rot in the shadows like this?

That left me with only one option. Vincent. My brother.

The thought of relying on him twists my stomach—he’s family, yes, but trust is a luxury I can’t afford. Still, I have to be smart. Cunning. If I’m going to escape, I need him.

So I used the house phone, dialing the same number he had called from a few days ago. The line clicked, and after a few tense seconds of silence, his voice came through.

“It’s Charlotte,” I whispered. “How can you get me out?”

His reply was confident. “Just walk to the main gate of the estate. Keep the guards talking. We’ll handle the rest.”

I frown, gripping the receiver tighter. “You mean you’re going to storm the gate with your men? That’s your plan?”

“Don’t worry about the details, Charlotte,” he says, irritation creeping into his voice. “I’ll get you out.”

“Don’t worry?” I almost laughed. “A move like that could start a full-blown war.”

His tone hardened. “We can handle war. Charlotte, do you want out or not?”

My stomach twisted. “How can I even trust you?”

“You’re asking how you can trust your own brother?” he snapped. “I’m the only family you have left. You don’t have a choice.”

My chest tightened.

His words felt like a trap. “Find Ethan first. Then I’ll make my move.”

Silence stretched across the line before Vincent repeated slowly, almost bitterly, “Ethan?”

“Yes,” I said firmly. “He’s a close friend. I need to speak with him.”

He exhaled sharply, the sound heavy with annoyance. “You’re still hung up on that friend of yours?”

“How could I not be?” I retort, my voice shaking with defiance. “He’s the only one I know I can trust. I need to talk to him, Vincent.”

Another pause, then Vincent finally said, “Fine. I’ll tell him to contact you by four tomorrow.” And the line went dead.

I lowered the receiver, my hands trembling.

The second I set it down, my stomach lurched. Panic shot through me, and I ran to the bathroom, falling to my knees at the toilet before vomiting.

The sour taste burned my throat. I gripped the sink, washed my face with cold water, and stared at my pale reflection. My chest heaved, my heart racing.

Why is this happening?

The nausea, the dizziness, the early morning sickness—it’s been plaguing me for days.

My mind recoils from the thought, but it creeps in anyway: Am I pregnant?

No. It’s impossible.

The idea of carrying a child in this nightmare, of being violated without memory or consent, is too horrific to entertain.

My hands shake as I grip the edge of the sink, willing the thought away.

It’s just stress, I tell myself. It has to be. But the doubt lingers, a poison seeping into my veins.

If it’s true, I need to know—fast. I can’t let this define me, not here, not now. But where in this godforsaken prison would I even find a pregnancy test?

I stumble back to the living room, my legs unsteady, and collapse onto the plush couch.

Fear, exhaustion, and anxiety coil tightly in my chest, each breath a struggle to keep panic at bay.

I flick on the television, desperate for distraction, and settle on Nickelodeon. The bright colors and cheerful voices of cartoons feel like a mockery of my reality, but I let them wash over me, numbing the edges of my dread.

Time slipped away until the sharp ringing of the house phone snapped me back. I glanced at the clock on the table—two hours had passed without me noticing.

My heart pounded as I lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hey, Charlotte.”

The voice wasn’t Vincent’s.

I froze. “…Who is this?”

“It’s Ethan.”

“Ethan?” My heart skipped. His voice was strange yet familiar, like an echo from a dream I couldn’t place.

Have I heard it recently? I push the thought aside, focusing on the moment. “Is it really you?”

“Yeah. I’m so glad you’re safe, Charlotte,” he said, his tone raw with emotion. “When I heard you went missing again, I tore through every contact, every lead I had. It drove me mad that Cassian failed to protect you—twice. What’s the point of all his power and wealth if the one person who matters most to him keeps slipping through his fingers?”

His words hit a nerve, echoing my own doubts about Cassian, the man who’s supposed to be my protector but feels more like a specter haunting my life. “Ethan, I need to see you,” I say, my voice raw with urgency. “You’re the only one I trust right now.”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his tone is heavy. “Cassian’s made it clear I’m not welcome in New York. He says I’ll be dead on sight if I show up.”

Anger flares in my chest. “I don’t trust Cassian either,” I admit, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “So much has happened in the last three years, Ethan. Things I can’t even begin to explain. Please, find a way for us to meet.”

Silence stretched, and I pressed the phone tighter to my ear. Unlike with Vincent, I didn’t feel resistance with Ethan. His voice didn’t repel me—it drew me in, like I already knew him.

Finally, he spoke. “Maybe I can smuggle you a burner phone. We could do video calls, stay in contact. But coming in person…” He trailed off. “It’s too dangerous.”

I bit down on my lip, torn between desperation and the small thread of comfort his words offered. At least Ethan was real. At least I wasn’t entirely alone.

“Okay, Ethan,” I said, my voice trembling slightly as I clutched the phone, “there’s something you need to know. I… I’ve lost my memory of the last three years. From the moment my grandfather pushed me to marry into the Moretti family in 2024, up until late last year when I entered that damned contest, House of Devils—it’s all gone. I don’t remember marrying Cassian. I don’t remember anything. But I believe you can tell me the truth. You sound like the only person I can trust right now.”

A heavy silence stretched across the line, and I could almost feel Ethan’s shock through the receiver. “Have you seen a doctor?” he asked, his voice laced with concern.

“Yeah,” I replied. “The doctor said there’s a fifty percent chance I might recover my memories… or I might not. It’s driving me insane, Ethan. I’m trapped in a life I don’t even recognize.”

“Jeez, Charlotte,” he muttered, his voice softening. “Listen, Cassian might have this line tapped. Stop using this phone. I’ll smuggle you a burner phone so we can talk securely. Let’s hope he’s not already listening to our calls.”

My heart sank at the thought of Cassian’s reach extending even to my private conversations. “Okay,” I agreed, my voice barely above a whisper. “Vincent wants to see me. Do you think I should go?”

“Hell no,” Ethan said sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You can’t trust Vincent—or your father, for that matter. Honestly, I’d rather you stay with Cassian than get tangled up with your family again.”

His words hit like a punch to the gut, confirming the unease I’d felt about Vincent’s sudden interest in me.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I said, hesitating before adding, “Um… can you send a pregnancy test with the burner phone?”

There was a pause, and I could almost see Ethan’s brow furrowing. “You think you’re pregnant?”

“I’ve been having symptoms,” I admitted, my voice cracking. “Nausea, dizziness, morning sickness. I’m terrified, Ethan. I need to know.”

“Don’t worry, Charlotte,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “You’ve got me, okay? I’ll have both the phone and the test tube smuggled to you within twenty-four hours.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, a lump rising in my throat. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

As I ended the call, a wave of relief mixed with dread washed over me.

Ethan’s warning about Vincent echoed my own suspicions—Vincent’s sudden eagerness to “rescue” me felt like a trap, a chess move in a game I didn’t understand.

But what was his endgame? And why did the thought of trusting anyone, even Ethan, leave a knot of unease in my chest?

Hours later, I sat alone at the polished dining table, picking at a plate of creamy fettuccine Alfredo, the rich sauce fragrant with garlic and parmesan.

The food was exquisite, but each bite felt like ash in my mouth.

My thoughts churned.

The clink of my fork against the plate was the only sound in the cavernous room, until soft, deliberate footsteps broke the silence behind me.

I knew it was Cassian.

His presence was unmistakable, a storm cloud rolling into the room.

I didn’t turn around, focusing instead on twirling a strand of pasta around my fork, as if ignoring him could make him disappear.

He moved to the opposite end of the table and sat, his chair scraping faintly against the hardwood floor.

I felt his gaze, intense, like a spotlight pinning me in place.

I tried to keep my movements steady, to pretend his scrutiny wasn’t peeling back every layer of my carefully constructed calm. But the weight of his stare was unbearable, a silent demand for acknowledgment.

Finally, I looked up, meeting his piercing eyes.

“Welcome back,” I said, my voice clipped but polite.

“How’s your hand?” he asked, his gaze dropping to the bandage wrapped around my finger. His tone was neutral, but there was something in his eyes—concern.

“Better,” I replied, glancing at the bandage.

The pain had dulled, thanks to the injection the doctor had given me.

“Hungry? I can get you a plate.”

“No,” he said simply, his voice measured.

I raised an eyebrow, pushing a piece of fettuccine around my plate. “Why not? You ate while you were out?”

“I cooked before I left,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “I ate then.”

I snorted softly, unable to help myself. “Most men can’t cook.”

His lips twitched. “I’m not most men.”

“Good for you,” I muttered, standing to gather my dishes.

I could still feel his gaze burning into my back as I walked to the kitchen, the weight of it like a physical touch.

I scrubbed the plate harder than necessary, the hot water stinging my hands as I tried to drown out the questions swirling in my mind.

Why was he watching me like that?

What did he want?

When I returned to the dining room, Cassian was still there, sitting like a king on his throne, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp.

I meant to walk past him, to retreat to the safety of my room, but something made me pause. “If you’re not eating, why are you still here?” I asked, crossing my arms.

His gaze darkened, and a slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “I could feast on you instead.”

My breath caught, and I forced myself to hold his stare, even as my heart raced.

“Feast on me? What, like beat me?” I asked, my voice sharp with defiance.

I knew he’d promised punishment for believing I am behind his sister’s death, but in the mafia world, “punishment” could mean anything from a slap to something far worse. I wouldn’t put anything past him.

Cassian stood, his movements fluid, closing the distance between us in a few strides.

“You think I’d ever lay a hand on you?” he asked, his voice laced with something that sounded almost like hurt.

Before I could respond, he scooped me up effortlessly, his hands strong but careful as he set me on the edge of the dining table.

My pulse thundered in my ears, but I didn’t fight him.

This was his domain, and resistance felt futile.

He cupped my jaw gently, his thumb brushing the edge of my chin.

His face was so close I could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the tension in his jaw.

“It’s taking everything in me not to fuck you right now,” he murmured, his voice raw.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze, to hide the fear and confusion roiling inside me. “What’s stopping you?” I challenged, my voice steadier than I felt. “You’ve got me in your custody. You can do whatever you want.”

His grip tightened slightly, not painful but firm, grounding me in the moment.

“I need your consent,” he said, his lips so close to mine I could feel the heat of his words. “I won’t take you by force.”

“Why?” I whispered, genuinely confused.

In a world where power was everything, why would he care about something as fragile as consent?

He hesitated, his eyes searching mine, as if looking for something lost. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said softly. “Not until your memory returns.”

The air between us crackled, charged with a dangerous mix of desire and distrust.

My body betrayed me, leaning toward him despite every warning in my mind.

He was my captor, my enemy, yet the heat of his touch sent a shiver of something else through me.

Before I could stop myself, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and pressed my lips to his.

It was like igniting a fuse.

Cassian responded instantly, his kiss hungry and consuming, as if he’d been holding back a tidal wave of need for too long.

His hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer, his fingers digging into my hips with a possessive edge.

The heat of his body was intoxicating, a dangerous warmth that made my skin hum and my thoughts scatter.

I knew I shouldn’t feel this way—not for him, not for the man who held me captive in this gilded prison. But my body didn’t care about logic, arching into his touch, craving the fire of his kiss.

His lips moved against mine with a fierce, almost reverent passion, and for a moment, I forgot the fear, the questions, the uncertainty.

There was only this—the taste of him, the strength of his hands, the way his breath hitched when I pressed closer.

Cassian’s hands parted my thighs with a deliberate tenderness, his fingers grazing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, sending a shiver rippling through me.

His lips were on mine, hungry, our breaths mingling in a heated dance.

A soft moan escaped me, swallowed by his kiss as I nipped at his lower lip, my body betraying the desperate need I couldn’t name.

The taste of him flooded my senses, pulling me deeper into the moment.

His hand slid lower, finding the edge of my underwear.

The press of his thumb against my clit sent a jolt of pleasure through me.

I gasped, arching into his touch as he deftly shifted the fabric aside, his fingers circling with a slow, deliberate rhythm.

My chest heaved, my legs trembling in the air as I clung to his shoulders, my nails digging into the taut muscle beneath his shirt.

The world narrowed to the heat of his touch, the pulse of my own heartbeat echoing in my ears.

“Cassian,” I breathed, my voice a desperate plea as his fingers moved with increasing confidence, one hand joined by another, stretching me to the edge of ecstasy and pain.

My body strained to accommodate the intensity, my grip on his shoulders tightening as if he were the only thing anchoring me to reality.

Pleasure coiled tighter, a spring ready to snap, and I was lost in it, my cries growing louder, unrestrained in the empty mansion.

His lips broke from mine, trailing down my jaw to my chest.

With a swift motion, he tugged my top over my head, the cool air kissing my skin before his mouth found my left chest.

He kissed my scars with a fervent passion, his tongue swirling, igniting sparks that raced down my spine.

“I’ve fucking missed you,” he growled, the raw edge in his voice sending a shock through me.

Missed me? The words hit like a thunderbolt, stirring confusion in the haze of desire.

How could he miss someone he claimed to want to punish?

His three fingers in me moved faster now, the rhythm unrelenting, and I felt myself teetering on the brink.

Then, with a suddenness that stole my breath, he withdrew his fingers, leaving me aching and empty.

My eyes flicked down to his belt as he unbuckled it, his gaze locked on mine, intense.

My cheeks flushed under the weight of his stare, but I couldn’t look away.

He freed himself, his arousal evident, and pulled my hips closer to the edge of the table.

Instinctively, I parted my thighs, and a faint, predatory smile curved his lips.

He entered me with a controlled force, not brutal but powerful, filling me completely.

My body jolted, a cry tearing from my throat as he began to move, each thrust deep and deliberate.

The table creaked beneath us, the only sound in the silent mansion aside from my unrestrained moans.

I was free to scream here, to let the pleasure consume me, and I did, my nails raking down his back as I surrendered to the rhythm of his body against mine.

His lips crashed into mine again, a fierce kiss that matched the intensity of his thrusts.

For a fleeting moment, the world dissolved—no captivity, no lost memories, no fear. Just him, his heat, his taste, the way his hands gripped my hips like I was both salvation and damnation.

My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as I chased the escape his touch offered.

His pace quickened, and I felt the tension building, a tidal wave ready to crash. I wrapped my arms tighter around him, my moans turning to desperate gasps as I neared the edge.

But just as I teetered on the brink, he stopped, pulling out abruptly. A wave of disappointment crashed over me, my body trembling with unspent need.

His erection stood proud, untouched by the pause, and I stared, breathless and confused.

“Turn,” he commanded, his voice possessive.

My legs were jelly, barely able to support me, but I obeyed, turning to brace my hands against the cool, polished surface of the table.

He stepped behind me, his hands steadying my hips as he slid into me again, deeper this time, filling me until I swore I could feel him in every part of my being.

His lips brushed the nape of my neck, trailing soft kisses down my spine, a stark contrast to the fierce rhythm of his thrusts.

His fingers tangled gently in my hair, tugging just enough to send a shiver through me, the mix of tenderness and dominance unraveling me completely.

“God,” I gasped, biting my lip to stifle the moans spilling from me.

The pleasure was overwhelming, a wildfire consuming every rational thought.

“Don’t stop,” I demanded, my voice raw as my hands gripped the table’s edge, knuckles white.

“Beg,” he growled, his thrusts growing harder, more insistent, as if he were claiming every inch of me.

“Please, Cassian… please, don’t stop…” The words tumbled out, desperate and unguarded, as I felt myself spiraling closer to release.

His pace tripled, each movement driving me higher until the world shattered.

I came with a violent shudder, my body jerking against the table as waves of pleasure crashed through me, leaving me boneless and gasping.

My legs buckled, but before I could collapse, Cassian’s arms were around me, lifting me effortlessly.

I was too spent to protest, my body limp in his hold as he carried me through the mansion’s dimly lit halls.

I expected him to take me to the bed, but instead, he veered into the bathroom, setting me gently in the clawfoot bathtub.

The cool porcelain was a shock against my overheated skin, grounding me in the haze of exhaustion.

He turned on the faucet, testing the water with his hand until it reached a soothing warmth.

Steam rose in soft curls, filling the air with a faint lavender scent as he poured in a capful of bath oil.

Kneeling beside the tub, he dipped a soft sponge into the water, his movements deliberate.

He began with my arms, the sponge gliding over my skin, washing away the sweat and tension with a tenderness that made my chest ache.

His fingers worked through my hair, massaging shampoo into my scalp, the gentle pressure coaxing a sigh from my lips.

He rinsed the suds away with a handheld showerhead, the warm water cascading over me like a caress.

“Lift your head,” he murmured, his voice soft but commanding.

I complied, my eyes half-closed as he worked conditioner through my tangled strands, his fingers careful not to pull.

When he was done, he wrapped me in a plush towel, drying me with the same care, his hands lingering on my shoulders, my back, as if memorizing every curve.

He carried me to the bedroom, my body still heavy with exhaustion, and laid me on the crisp sheets.

The mattress dipped under my weight, and I sank into its softness as he drew a thick duvet over me, tucking it around my shoulders.

His touch was gentle.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat before he stepped back.

I watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as he retreated to the bathroom, presumably to shower himself.

Confusion swirled in my mind, tangling with the lingering warmth of his touch.

Didn’t he hate me?

Didn’t he want to punish me for whatever betrayal he believed I’d committed? Yet here he was, tending to me with a care that felt achingly familiar, like a memory just out of reach.

Exhaustion pulled at me, the pleasure and intensity of the night sinking into my bones.

The sound of running water from the bathroom became a distant lullaby, and before I knew it, my eyes fluttered closed, sleep claiming me in its gentle embrace.