His Deadly Obsession

By Desiree Scott

He has a deadly obsession - her. 

Chelsea Hopkins thought she had killed the man who abused her. When her desperate mark misses its aim, fear keeps her running. She has spent years one step ahead of him, a man hell bent on destroying her. Running has taught her that trust was a fragile illusion that she couldn't afford, or

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kingston Publishing Company
• Release date: Feb 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781645334347

Book preview

Copyright

His Deadly Obsession is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

HIS DEADLY OBSESSION: A NOVEL

Copyright © 2021 by Desiree Scott

All rights reserved.

Editing by Kathy Moczerniak

Cover Design by KP Designs

- www.kpdesignshop.com

Published by Kingston Publishing Company, LLC

- www.kingstonpublishing.com

The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Extras

About the Author

About the Publisher

Dedication

To all my readers. You guys are the reason I tell stories. You keep me going. Thank you!

Prologue

Abigail, there has to be another way, Barbara Holland said urgently, wringing her slender hands as she watched her 18-year-old adopted daughter quickly throw clothes into a bag, going from the closet to the bed. The clothes were thrown with a hazard disregard that was making her OCD go crazy. Her fingers itched to straighten out the mess, but she didn’t want to get in her daughter’s way, not when the panic they were both experiencing was more than enough to throw them into next week. You can’t keep running, sweetie. You’re safe here. He doesn’t know…

Abigail Holland tuned out her mother’s voice as she shook her head, blond strands sticking to her sweaty face as she struggled to breathe. Abigail didn’t pause, didn’t stop to think or analyze. She was done overthinking it, done trying to pretend. There was no pretending anymore. All she knew was she had to run as far away as possible and not look back. She wouldn’t survive if she didn’t.

Gulping, she struggled to control her breathing, to calm her heart rate as she thought of the dark shadow she had seen outside the store hours before. Fear had paralyzed her, frozen her to the spot right beside her little car because she had known who it was, what he wanted, and the mere thought sent terror, a bone-chilling terror, slicing through her.

Her therapist’s words raced through her mind.

Relax. Breathe. He can’t hurt you. You’re strong. He’s gone. Remember, you’re an adult now. Fear has no place in your life. Don’t let him control you any longer.

Yeah, right.

She almost scoffed at that as she tossed another shirt in her suitcase and made another trip to her closet while her mother stood behind her. She knew she was worried, terrified for her, and Abigail wished it could be different, but she was done with the illusion of what couldn’t be. Reality was what it was, and she refused to put the only person she cared about, the only person who loved her, in danger.

It was him.

The shiver of fear, of dread, was unmistakable, and she wouldn’t fool herself again. It had all been an illusion—the adoption, the move fifteen hundred miles away, the deception of safety; it was all a lie, a desperate lie conceived in the shadows of the night that Abigail had been frantic to believe. No more.

The bag trailing behind her, she made her way to the front door of their small two-bedroom house, her darling mother, the only woman who had stood up for her and tried to protect her, rushed to follow, begging and pleading for her not to go. Abigail knew he would hurt her mother to get back at her if she was around, and Abigail refused to let that happen. If she was gone, the bastard would follow, and the only woman who ever cared for her would be safe.

Abigail would see to that.

She turned before opening the door, and the tears streaming from Barbara’s face broke her heart, but she didn’t let that deter her. She couldn’t.

I love you, Mom, she whispered, her voice breaking toward the end. She didn’t know if she would ever see her again, but she couldn’t, wouldn’t, put her life at risk. If it meant never seeing her again, then that’s what it would take. She couldn’t lose her too, not after everything…

Before she could break or give in, Abigail turned and walked out, lugging the one suitcase behind her.

It was the story of her life. For as long as she could remember, Abigail had been thrown from one foster family to another after her parents died in a car accident when she was eight. Some of the homes had been bad but a few a lot worse than others, and that "worse" had just caught up with her. She thought her running days were over, but she should have known better, not as long as Jason Kingston was alive.

Hours later, armed with the money Barbara insisted she take, Abigail ditched her car and boarded the greyhound bus.

Tears stung her eyes as she sat down in the back, hoping to be invisible for just a little bit longer. She didn’t bother to hide, not then. She wanted the bastard to know she left, to follow before he hurt her mom.

Time passed in a blur, the bus zigging across the country roads. State lines flew by the window, and the farther they got from her past, the harder it was to wipe away the tears streaming down her face.

Chapter 1

One year later…

The pool of blood seeped into the beige carpet, dripping from the knife wounds on her stomach and legs as she struggled against the ropes. Her eyes wild, she tried to scream, but nothing came from her raw throat.

Hours of screaming, of begging, had taken its toll. Abigail’s head rolled back against her arm as she tugged and twisted, tears leaking from her red eyes.

Choking back the sobs, she ceased her struggles as she heard the door unlock, the hinges squeaking as it opened.

Flinching, she waited as Jason Kingston’s dark eyes met hers, a bag in his arms as he kicked the door closed and locked it again with his spare hand.

Sorry to keep you waiting, babe. Had to run out to get a few things.

Why are you doing this? she whispered harshly, her low voice almost shattered as she struggled to get the words out, her mouth dry.

He raised a dark eyebrow as he set the bag down on the table beside the twin-size bed.

Why? Because you’re mine. You’ve always been mine.

He started to drag out items from the brown bag, and she stiffened, terror bright in her blue eyes as she watched him take out razor blades, a few hooks, a clamp, and a few knives.

With frantic movements, she jerked at the binds with a desperation that made Jason laugh as he tossed the empty bag aside and grinned down at her.

He picked up the clamp and walked to the foot of the bed where her legs were spread wide, exposing her. He leaned down and inserted the clamp inside her. Abigail screamed, but only a harsh croak came out as it went deeper, the pain tearing her up.

She welcomed the blackness.

****

Abigail stared down at the lifeless body mere inches from her feet, and bile rose. Her chest tight, the room spun, tilting dangerously as her eyes went from the prone figure to the blood on her hands—hands that shook as her breathing came in ragged gasps, sweat dripping down the side of her face. It mixed with the blood from the deep cuts and bruises that covered her body, but she took no notice of the pain, the stiffness of her muscles as she stood frozen in the middle of the room, her whole body a mass of trembles as her stomach rolled and heaved.

Her gaze zoomed in on the small knife embedded in his chest, a little to the right as the pool of blood seemed to get bigger and wider as it blended into the stained carpet of the dingy motel room. Not all the blood was his. A lot of it was hers, and the room spun as she fought to stay on her feet, to stay conscious.

Swallowing was almost impossible, but a large ball of bile managed to work its way back down to her stomach, and the swallowing sound of her gulp vibrated in the silence.

For once, there were no sirens blasting through the city, no yelling or screaming coming from the streets or rooms. It was as if the night were dead or holding its own breath at the loss of life she had taken.

No choice. Him or me. I didn’t have a choice…

Struggling to hold down the acid that kept rising, Abigail focused on taking deep breaths, but she couldn’t stop shaking.

I came so close…

The thick haze of the stale cigarette smell overpowered her senses and burned her eyes, making her gag.

Abigail forced herself to move and stumbled to the bathroom, heaving over the toilet. Stomach acid made her gag again, and she leaned against the toilet weakly, her forehead against her shaking arm. Sweat stung her eyes, and her blond hair was plastered to her head and neck, small strands tickling her shoulders and face.

Hands shaking, she stood up on unsteady legs as she flushed the handle, bracing herself on the back of the toilet as the room spun again.

She closed her eyes, not knowing how long she stood there, slowly breathing as the foul taste of stomach acid coated the inside of her mouth.

Grimacing, she moved over to the sink, holding herself up against the counter. She was so weak. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been allowed to eat, but it had to have been days, and the bastard only allowed water in small gulps.

Rinsing her mouth out, she splashed water on her face and then used her hands to hold her steady as the room tilted yet again.

She bowed her head, avoiding the mirror and her reflection.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Don’t pass out. He must be dead. There’s so much blood. He…he can’t hurt you, not anymore.

With those thoughts came the next more terrifying aspect of the night.

No one will believe me.

Her chest tight, she choked back a sob, her trembling hand on her mouth to quiet the noise. She was a pro at being quiet.

Be invisible. No one will hurt you then.

It had been the only way to survive, and yet that hadn’t saved her from his grasp this time. No. He had found her. Even after she left and moved, he tracked her down, just as he said he would.

Her legs unsteady, she stood in the doorway of the bathroom and looked around the room, her eyes avoiding the body and the blood that continued to soak into the carpet as she took in her prison for the past two days.

Ashtrays littered the room, with trashcans overflowing onto the floor. The room didn't seem to have been cleaned in days, and there was no telling what the bed had been through. The brown carpet was stained, and the added blood wouldn't make a difference in that regard.

Yellowed walls were faded and cracked in several places, and there were water stains on the ceiling. The twin-size bed stood in the middle of the room, with thick ropes dangling from the headboard that had held her until she escaped. A small bedside table beside it was also littered with ashes. The items and knives he brought with him were thrown around the room, covered in blood.

Her blood.

She looked down at herself and could almost match each blade with each slice of her skin.

Panic took hold, threatening to choke her as her wide eyes landed on the man who tried to kill her.

Her foster brother.

A man she hadn’t seen in over three years but the darkness in his eyes had been the same.

His appearance had changed. Instead of ash blond hair, he had dyed it to black, and his brown eyes had been blue.

Colored contacts.

She hadn’t recognized him because even his body was different. Where he had once been thin and almost sickly looking, he had developed muscles and had beefed himself up. Add that to the transformation, and it was no wonder she hadn’t recognized him, but the darkness had been the same. And his grin had been pure malice as his dark gaze had traveled quickly down her body, stopping at the junction of her thighs. His grin had widened, and Abigail could remember feeling as if live snakes had slithered down her body with each frightening caress of his eyes.

She thought back on the years she had been living with his parents, people that had taken cruel enjoyment of torturing her, of making her beg for her food. She hadn’t been allowed to attend school and had been so-called homeschooled.

No, if she had gone to school, everyone would have seen the bruises, the black eyes, and her thin frame starving from the lack of food. And then she remembered Jason Kingston, her foster brother.

Well, well, well. If it isn’t my little sister, he’d sneered when she walked in the house after being picked up by her foster parents.

She had frozen, clutching her suitcase at her side in a tight grip as she stared at him sitting on the couch, his thin legs crossed at the ankles on the scarred coffee table, his arms folded across his chest. His dark eyes raked her from her blond head to her toes but stared intently at her full chest. He was seventeen then, five years older than she, and even though he had been thin and lanky, he was tall and quick.

She had known fear before that day, but her fear had turned to terror at that moment. There had been something about him, something she wanted nothing to do with.

She hadn’t responded but gone straight to the room assigned to her and locked the door, even going so far as to put a chair beneath the doorknob.

Not that it ever worked, she thought, shivering as she remembered. It hadn’t kept out her foster brother or his father.

She closed her eyes, struggling to blank her mind, but it didn’t do any good.

It never did.

She looked down at the blood on her hands shaking almost uncontrollably and felt her stomach heave again, her abs tightening with the urge.

Before she could dry heave again, she thought of how she had ended up here, and she remembered leaving the library where she had been researching colleges, having just gotten her transcripts from the high school she graduated from when Barbara had raised her. Her adoptive mother had been a force and made her attend, and now she was determined to make something of herself despite where she had come from.

She fought to recall the dark parking lot, of leaving the café where she worked and could see herself walking to her car in the dark, preoccupied about the research