Page 3 of His Savage Obsession
He clenches his fists by his sides, the muscles in his arms tensing visibly, and puffs out his chest in a display of bravado. Liam stands at a couple of inches shorter than me, measuring in at 5'9". I can’t help but think that being on the south end of six feet gives him some sort of complex. It’s not something I dwell on too much, but I’ve seen enough guys with Napoleon syndrome to recognize the signs. "That's my sister, Bianchi. Don't talk about dicks in front of her," he snaps, his voice low and threatening, as if he’s trying to assert his dominance in a territory that feels all too familiar.
If I clench my jaw any tighter, I’m going to end up breaking a tooth. "Sweetie," I start, my voice laced with condescension, "I'll pull my dick out and show it to her up close and personal if you get any closer to my face. Step back, Liam." The words slip out with a calmness that belies the tension simmering just beneath the surface.
"You threatening her virginity, you motherfucker?" His eyes blaze with a mix of fury and something else—possessiveness, perhaps?
She's a God damn virgin? The realization hits me like a jolt of electricity, and I’ve never been harder in my life. This Irish fuck in front of me could pull out a pair of brass knuckles and thrust them straight into my jaw, and I’d still be hard, caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.
"Liam, stop." Autumn’s voice cuts through the charged atmosphere as she grabs his arm and gently pulls him back, her demeanor a calming balm amidst the brewing storm. "Enzo is my neighbor. Can you be nice, for once?" Her words hang in the air, a fragile hope for peace.
As it turns out, the answer to that question is a resounding no. Liam's glare remains fixed on me, his expression as if he wants to grind me into a fine powder. "You got bad taste, Autumn. Shitty friends, shitty neighbors—" His voice drips with disdain, a clear attempt to undermine me.
"Shitty brother," Isabella interjects, her tone sharp and cutting, a reminder that even in this chaos, familial loyalty runs deep.
I'm relieved Isabella voiced the truth instead of me. "Listen, I'm just here to have a few drinks, Gallagher. I saw some commotion and thought I’d check it out. If I had known it was just a family spat, I would’ve stayed put, but I’ve got a soft spot for damsels in distress. So sue me if I’m drawn to trouble."
Liam's lip curls in disdain, his irritation palpable as he sizes me up, but he ultimately relents. "C'mon, Autumn. We gotta go," he insists, his tone brokering no argument.
"I told you, jackass, she's not going with you," Isabella jumps back in, reigniting the very argument that had spiraled into this mess in the first place.
Liam pivots his fiery rage toward the blonde, towering over her with an intensity that could scorch. "Listen here, slut, just because you want to parade around the clubs looking like a hooker doesn't mean my sister will. It was probably your influence that convinced her to step out looking like this," he sneers, gesturing dismissively back at Autumn.
Honestly, I’m kind of digging the slip dress. It’s got a very vintage vibe, something that stands out amid the chaos. "Guys, maybe this isn't the place to?—"
"Shut it, Bianchi," Liam roars, his voice booming without even glancing my way. "Stop calling my sister. Stop texting me. Stop inserting yourself into my family's life." The finality in his words is chilling, underscoring the tension hanging thick in the air.
Autumn takes a quiet step backward, her presence shrinking as the tension between the two men escalates. I catch a glimpse of her eyes flicking nervously in my direction before darting toward the exit, a silent plea for escape. While Liam and his friend hurl insults at each other, engaging in a ridiculous contest to determine who possesses the bigger ego and who can claim the title of the worst influence, we seize our chance to slip away unnoticed.
Once we step into the warm embrace of the Las Vegas night air, my heart soars like a bird released from its cage. I've dreamt of this day for months, maybe even years, envisioning the thrill of freedom and adventure that comes with it. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. Autumn grips my hand tightly, a spark of excitement lighting up her face as she pulls me toward anotherbuilding, her grin infectious. "Come on," she urges, "before they figure out we left."
I can't help but reflect on my own life as we move away from the chaos. I attend church with my mother whenever she asks; she's a devoted Catholic, attending services regularly as part of her routine. My own relationship with God is more complicated—tinged with uncertainty and occasional doubt. In moments of great distress, I’ve been known to call out in prayer, seeking solace or guidance. But right now, I'm not in distress; I feel invincible, riding high on a wave of exhilaration. I can almost picture God looking down, surprised to hear from me.Thank you. I know we should talk more, and I swear I’ll see you on Sunday. But thank you for making every dream I've ever had come true.
Indeed, as Autumn pulls me through the entrance of Cloak & Dagger, the vibrant energy of the place washes over me, and I can’t imagine my life ever getting any better than this exhilarating moment. The thrill of possibilities stretches out before us like the neon lights illuminating the Las Vegas skyline, and I feel a sense of hope blooming within me.
4
AUTUMN
Enzo is breathtaking. We sit nestled in the darkest booth at Cloak & Dagger, the atmosphere thick with an intoxicating blend of laughter and smoke as we sip on our spiked lemonades, the tartness mixing delightfully with the sweetness of the alcohol. Giggling like schoolchildren, we lose ourselves in the moment. Maybe it’s the haze of smoke swirling in the air, where the sharp scent of nicotine intertwines with the telltale aroma of something far stronger. I almost feel like I’m getting a secondhand high, lulled into bliss by the smooth, velvety sounds of Dean Martin crooning in the background.
“How do you wear these things?” Across the table, with my foot comfortably resting in his lap, Enzo begins to deftly remove my heel. My protests are weak and lack conviction. “They’re very pretty, but they seem like torture devices,” he adds with a teasing smile that makes my heart flutter. The moment he slips my shoe off and starts massaging my foot with those skilled fingers, I vow to never wear heels again, a promise that feels both liberating and indulgent.
I am utterly lost to the sensations—the heady mix of booze and the magnetic charm of his company. He has a way of making me feel good, enveloping me in warmth and laughter, and the noxious fumes in the air filling my lungs somehow don’t seem so bad after all. “They’re an attractant,” I tell him with a lazy grin, my eyelids growing heavy with contentment. “Men worship at the altar of a beautiful calf.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind, my father's voice echoes like a phantom, screaming with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. "Stop! This is a Bianchi," he insists, each word heavy with the weight of familial expectations. "You shouldn't be letting him touch you like this." His warnings about my virginity reverberate through my thoughts, a relentless reminder of how fraught with judgment this moment could be. He urges me to think about the paparazzi lurking in the shadows, ready to twist any candid photograph into scandalous headlines. But what do I care? Virginity can mean so many things, a concept so fluid and often misunderstood.
As I reflect on my youth, I remember how my father would explode with fury over the slightest hint of affection. When I was just a girl, he would nearly have a heart attack if he saw me holding hands with a boy, his face turning a shade of red that seemed to signal a storm brewing. In high school, the wrath reached new heights when I was caught stealing a kiss under the bleachers during a raucous football game. "That's how rumors spread about loose girls," he had thundered, his disappointment palpable. Liam, my brother, was quick to back him up, nodding along as if I were the villain in our family drama. While he could wander freely, my every move was scrutinized, and the double standard felt like a heavy shackle around my ankle.
The world is a maze of rules, an intricate web that shifts and morphs depending on who you are. I grew up in a household where a specific set of rules existed solely for me, dictated by my gender. My brother could indulge in his sexual escapades without a second thought, but God forbid a man should dare to touch me beneath my skirts or even entertain the idea of slipping his hand under my shirt. Such transgressions were strictly forbidden, an unspoken decree that I was precious cargo, destined to be saved for my husband, as if my worth were tied to the notion of purity and restraint.
My husband was a subject of familial debate from the very moment I drew my first breath. He was to be a strong man, one with a commanding reputation that could silence rooms and sway opinions. Marriage to him would bolster our family name, propelling it into circles of respectability and prestige. Love? Who cared if Autumn loved her husband? The prevailing sentiment was that she would come to love him in due course, as if affection were a mere byproduct of obligation. I wasn't meant to fall for the boys I encountered at school, nor was I supposed to dispense favors like they were mere trinkets, for doing so would tarnish the immaculate Gallagher brand. My family had but one card to play in this intricate game of social standing, and it was me. If their carefully chosen ace of hearts turned out to be nothing more than a mundane seven of clubs, what would they do then?
I liked to imagine that Enzo's family operated under different principles, that they didn't buy and trade women like commodities in a marketplace. They probably did, of course, but in the realm of my fantasies, he was a man who desired me for me—my essence and spirit—rather than simply for the advantages my family could bestow upon him.
"Do you hate the Gallaghers like the rest of your family?" I ask, my words tinged with a slight drunken slur that betrays my inebriation, and I make a silent vow to stick to water from this moment on. I want to preserve every detail of this night, to etch it into my memory, for it may be the only night of freedom I ever experience again.
Enzo's fingers glide over the arches of my feet, working their magic like a dream, and I find myself lost in the sensation. He wears a charming smile, his hooded eyes watching me with an appreciation that feels both intoxicating and rare. "Your brother, perhaps, but he seems like a tool," he replies, his tone casual yet insightful. "What's his deal with your friend?"
Liam and Isabella share a history that could fill a textbook, each chapter more tumultuous than the last. She's the kind of woman my parents dread I might become, yet she’s precisely the type my brother seems to fall for, her allure drawing him in as she appears to surrender to him without hesitation. "They're definitely the on-again, off-again type, but last year, things escalated when he got her pregnant. She chose not to keep it," I explain, recalling the weight of that choice. He insisted that she should take no other lovers, promising to care for her and the child for life, an offer rooted in a sense of duty. But Isabella, ever the wild spirit, declared she was far too young to be relegated to the role of Liam's lifelong mistress. Since then, they’ve been in a constant state of ‘off.’