Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I'm obsessed with the shy, innocent barista who works at my favorite coffee shop.
She doesn't know that I bought the house across the street from her apartment so that I can watch over her.
I secretly collect her paintings and hang them in my bedroom.
And I won't hesitate to break into her home to find out what kind of books she likes to read.
I'll do whatever it takes to win her heart.
As a doctor, I know my own diagnosis: psychopath.
But my obsession with her makes me feel almost human for the first time in my life.
I can't resist this...compulsion.
I can't resist her.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
PROLOGUE
ABBY
The masked man is waiting for me in the midnight shadows of my apartment.
I stumble slightly as I close the front door behind me and search blindly for the light switch. Before my palm brushes the hard plastic knob, strong fingers ensnare my wrist, and a broad body slams into mine. A gloved hand clamps over my mouth, muffling my shocked cry. My arm is wrenched behind me, and I’m forced to turn when my shoulder screams in protest. The intruder uses his grip on my arm as a lever to control my body, and I’m pinned in an instant, my cheek pressing against the inside of my front door.
The lingering, pleasant buzz of alcohol disappears from my mind like fog evaporating beneath harsh morning light, and my entire world sharpens in a burst of adrenaline.
I try to shove away from the door with my free hand, but my short nails scrabble uselessly against the peeling ivory paint. My other wrist is pinned behind my back, and my attacker’s weight keeps me trapped between him and the door.
A low growl rumbles against my nape, making my fine hairs stand on end. The man’s hand on my face slides upward, covering my nose and mouth. I can’t breathe.
My entire body seizes with panic, and I writhe in his hold.
He releases my trapped wrist for a split second, but I don’t have the time or space to fight him off before a sharp clicking noise is followed by a cold blade at my throat.
“Quiet.” His voice is deep and rough, almost inhuman. “Don’t fight me, and I won’t hurt you.”
It’s a lie, but I have no choice: I comply.
My tears fall in silent streams as my world shatters, and my masked attacker breaks me down to reveal the most painful, darkest parts of my soul.
1
DANE
Her slender fingers are far too elegant for steaming milk and pouring espresso. She keeps her shy, aquamarine gaze characteristically downcast, and dark lashes hide her striking eyes as she focuses on her work. A large, brown freckle marks her right cheekbone, half a centimeter from the corner of her eye. The imperfection should irritate me, but I find the imbalance on her otherwise symmetrical face fascinating.
I’m equally intrigued by the purple streak in her long, sable hair. It’s pulled back in a messy ponytail for her barista job, and the defiant dyed locks peek through thick waves at her nape. When her hair is down during private moments at home, the flash of amethyst falls over her left shoulder. Sometimes, she braids it into an elaborate but functional style that shows off the bold color.
As she reaches for a paper cup, the golden café lighting plays over a cerulean paint smudge that marks her delicate, porcelain wrist—a hint at her creative brilliance and her haphazard lifestyle.
A few blocks away, her tiny, one-bedroom apartment is a perpetual mess, the mundane chores neglected in favor of pursuing her art. She paints with feverish intensity every day, until the bright summer Charleston sunlight wanes, and her canvas is illuminated by her cheap standing lamps.
I know because I’ve watched her for hours. There’s a shadowy garden that’s overgrown in front of the house across the street from her derelict building.
I bought the house two months ago so that I could indulge in my obsession. This compulsion to know everything about her has become my favorite malady, and I’m far too selfish to seek out a cure.
I’ve known my own diagnosis long before I completed my medical degree: psychopath.
But my craving for this woman is the closest thing to human emotion I’ve ever experienced.
I want more.
I want her.
Body, heart, and soul.
Abigail Foster is already mine. She will accept the truth soon enough.
2
ABBY
Ifeel his forest green eyes on me, even though I barely glimpsed him in my peripheral vision when he entered the café. Luckily, my coworker, Stacy, is on register today; I’m able to hide behind the espresso machine and lose my frazzled thoughts in the morning rush of thirsty caffeine addicts.
But as much as I’d like to remain cushioned in my mindless bubble of steaming milk and pouring out familiar latte art, I’m always aware when he comes in for his daily black Americano.
His name is Dane.
That’s what it says on his cup every morning when he places his order like clockwork at eight-oh-five AM.
The name suits him: it’s a hot name for an insanely gorgeous man.
He’s so beautiful that I can barely look at him, much less hold eye contact.
Sometimes, I indulge myself when he’s chatting with whoever is on register. He’s charming, with a brilliant white smile that flashes in contrast with the dark, perfectly manicured stubble that covers his anvil-sharp jawline. Midnight-black hair is artfully swept back from his heartbreaking face, longer on top and cropped close at the sides. Heavy brows that might be too harsh on another man accent his boldly masculine features.