Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Bella
I swipe at the tears that betray me, each one a silent admission that despite everything, my heart isn't done with Jacob.
It's pathetic. He's still out there, lingering like a shadow just beyond my apartment door. I can see him through the window—a tall figure, roguish brown hair catching glints of the fading sun, those piercing blue eyes probably scanning every exit and entrance.
"Go away, Jacob," I whisper to myself, not brave enough to face him, to tell him he's crossed lines you don't uncross. My phone buzzes incessantly on the coffee table, his name flashing like a neon sign of my own weakness. Voicemail after voicemail—I hit delete without listening.
Because I know. I know if I hear his voice, that measured tone that always seems so calm and in control, I'll crumble. I'm not about to give him that satisfaction.
I'm about to draw the curtains when my phone lights up with a new kind of urgency, a text that cuts through the silence. It's him. Of course, it's him. Jacob doesn't give up. He's as persistent as he is meticulous in everything he does, from shooting X-rays to..this.
"I can't stop. I won’t stop. It's crazy, I know. But I'm obsessed, Bella. I'll do anything. Anything for you. I never meant to hurt you. I fucking love you, baby. I adore eveything about you. I’ve wanted you from the moment I first set eyes on you in the hospital. Can you blame me for that?"
The words crawl under my skin, an itch I shouldn't want to scratch.
Obsessed? The term alone should send me running, yet somewhere deep down where I don't want to look, it thrills me.
Jacob, the very model of restraint, coming undone at the seams for me. It's intoxicating to be wanted like that—to be the center of someone's universe.
But no. This is not some erotic fantasy where the hero gets a free pass because he loves too hard. I lock my phone and toss it aside, my resolve steeling. He needs to understand that this—whatever this is—isn't healthy.
"Boundaries, Jacob," I mutter, trying to convince myself as much as him, even though he can't hear me. "You need to learn them."
Ignoring him is the right thing to do. I have to believe that. So I shove my feet into my sneakers, grab my racket, and prepare to slip out unnoticed. Tennis doesn't judge me or obsess over me. On the court, it's just me, the ball, and the satisfying thwack as I serve another ace.
I need that clarity, that simplicity. Not this tangled web of desire and desperation that Jacob weaves around us.
I just need time to clear my head and think.
So, I slip out the back, my breath a mist in the cool morning air. My sneakers crunch against the gravel, a welcome sound compared to the silence of unanswered calls and unread messages. Freedom tastes like sweat and adrenaline, not like Jacob's lingering scent in my hair where I laid on his pillow.
"Focus, Bella," I coach myself, tennis bag slung over my shoulder.
The gym is my sanctuary, the court my confessional. Here, every serve purges a sin, every swing absolves a weakness.
"Looking good, Bella," Alex says as he steps into my personal court.
I startle. Our practice isn’t for another hour. “Oh, hey Alex. Wasn’t expecting to see you yet.”
He steps even closer to me, and for the first time, I notice how his eyes sweep over me from head to toe.
My guard goes up, and I take a step back.
Why is Alex looking at me like that?
“How about some close net practice?” he suggests as he takes another step toward me.
I take another one back. "No thanks."
He doesn't take the hint, though. Instead, he moves closer, his hand brushing mine, his intentions clear as the smile plastered on his face—a smile I had once thought friendly and helpful but now only looks wolfish and predatory.
"Come on, let me help you work on your form," he insists and leans in, his hands grabbling my hips and gripping them tight—too tight.
I panic. Disgust coils in my gut, my skin crawling. But before I can shove him away, a shadow looms, and then—a crack. It's the sound of knuckles meeting jaw, and suddenly he's on the floor, and Jacob is there, breathing hard, fire in those piercing blue eyes.
"Touch her again, and I swear—" Jacob's voice is a lethal whisper, a promise of violence that sends shivers down my spine.
"Jacob?" I breathe, heart thundering in my chest. Confusion wars with relief. He shouldn't be here, but God, am I glad he is.
"Are you okay, Bella?" His concern is tangible, wrapped around me like a blanket, warm and suffocating.
"Y-yes," I stammer, the world narrowing to just him and me. There's a madness in his gaze, a fierce protectiveness that should scare me—but…doesn't. It's like he's stripped bare, all meticulous control gone, replaced by raw, untamed need.
"Good." He turns back to my trainer still sprawled on the ground, a silent warning in his stance. Then Jacob faces me again, hands reaching out, hesitant yet irresistible.
"I couldn't stay away," he confesses. "Not when he..." He shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “I knew what he wants. Had to protect you.”
And that’s when I realize—I don't want him to stay away. Not really. Not when his obsession is the dark mirror of my own hidden desires.
I step into Jacob, into the circle of his arms, and it's like coming home.
"Jacob," I whisper against his lips before they crash against mine.
And then He’s pulling up my tennis skirt while fishing his cock from his pants.
One thrust and he’s inside me.
And all is forgiven.
I gasp, my back slamming against the cold, hard surface of the tennis court wall. Jacob’s movements are relentless, driven by pent-up desire and a primal urge to claim.
His hips slam forward, each thrust punctuated with a low growl that vibrates against my skin, sending shivers of pleasure coursing through me.
“You’re mine,” he groans, his breath hot against my ear. The possessiveness in his voice should probably warn me off, but instead, it fans the flames of my own arousal.
“Yes, Jacob,” I moan back, my legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Only yours.”
We move together in a frantic rhythm, lost in a haze of lust and territorial need. Around us, the world fades to nothing—there's no trainer watching from the ground, no hospital shifts or tennis matches.
There's just this raw, unfiltered connection that pulses between us like a live wire.
His hands roam over my body with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt—I am his obsession, and he is my undeniable craving.
As I teeter on the edge of climax, Jacob's grip tightens, his blue eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that could scorch souls.
“Never leave me,” he whispers fiercely as he senses my imminent release.
“Never,” I promise between gasps, and it’s enough to send us both tumbling over the edge into a shattering release that leaves our bodies trembling.
It's desperate, this make-up sex, a clashing of souls hungry for forgiveness and starving for connection.
"Swear you'll never run from me again," he pants between kisses that brand me as his.
"Never," I gasp, giving myself over to the moment, to the man whose love is a tempest I no longer have the will to weather. We're reckless, frantic, as if trying to prove something vital with our bodies.
I know now that I crave this intensity, this dangerous dance of possession and surrender. And as we come undone together, I'm aware that we are both irrevocably obsessed. But maybe that's exactly what we need.
Maybe that's what I've wanted all along.