His to Control (Obsession & Redemption #2)

Chapter 1

The low hum of the city below fades into insignificance as I survey the scene before me.

It’s not just about the game; it never is with us.

Each man here carries his own obsession, his own darkness.

And I, Remy Harding, am the puppet master, pulling the strings, but for tonight, I’m swimming with the sharks. My friends.

The polished surface of the poker table installed in the middle of my living room gleams under the ambient lighting, casting long shadows across the faces of the men seated around it.

Colton leans back in his chair, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. He flicks a chip in Rex’s direction, the red disc skittering across the green felt. “So, Rex,” he drawls, “heard you’re settling down with the beautiful Laurel. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Rex’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. Not yet.

“Our resident art collector finally found a piece he can’t resist,” I chime in, unable to resist twisting the knife. “Tell us, Rex, is Laurel going in a glass case like the rest of your treasures?”

A ripple of laughter sweeps around the table. Rex’s knuckles turn white as he grips his cards tighter.

“Careful, Remy,” Colton chuckles, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “He might need your services as a fixer to clean up the mess if she tries to escape.”

“I don’t need fixers,” Rex growls, his voice low and dangerous. “And Laurel isn’t forced into anything. She’s with me willingly.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Colton retorts, tossing back his drink. “Way I hear it, you’ve got her on quite the leash.”

The tension ratchets up another notch. I can feel it thrumming through my veins, a heady mix of adrenaline and power.

“Sounds like someone’s jealous,” Rex sneers, finally breaking his silence. “How’s the revolving door of conquests treating you, Colton? Still getting off on being watched?”

Colton’s smile doesn’t falter, but I catch the flash of something darker in his eyes. “At least I’m honest about what I want. Unlike some of us who pretend they’ve changed.”

I lean back in my chair, savoring the tension building around the table. Rex’s composure is admirable, but I can see the cracks forming. His fingers tap against the polished wood, a tell I’ve learned to recognize over our years of acquaintance.

“Laurel isn’t a possession,” Rex states, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of irritation. I catch the slight tightening around his eyes, the barely perceptible clench of his jaw. Oh, how he struggles to maintain that iron control.

“She’s with me because she chooses to be,” he continues, his gaze sweeping across the table, daring anyone to challenge him.

I can’t help but smirk. The man doth protest too much, methinks. But before I can interject, Declan beats me to it.

“Isn’t she?” Declan’s voice drips with amusement as he leans forward, green eyes glinting. “You’ve called her perfect enough times, like one of your precious paintings. But perfection’s boring, isn’t it? Where’s the fun in that?”

I watch Rex’s reaction carefully. His fingers still their tapping, and for a moment, I think he might lose that legendary control. But he surprises me, letting out a low chuckle that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You misunderstand, Declan,” Rex replies, his tone measured. “Perfection isn’t about being flawless. It’s about being perfectly suited to each other. Laurel challenges me in ways none of you could comprehend.”

Luka, who’s been quietly observing until now, leans forward. His long hair falls across his face, partially obscuring those piercing blue eyes. “Or maybe perfection is just the beginning for you, Rex,” he suggests softly, his words carrying a weight that silences the table.

I can’t help but admire Luka’s insight. He may be the quietest among us, but his observations are always razor-sharp. Rex’s eyes narrow slightly, and I can see him reassessing Luka, perhaps wondering what else the reclusive artist has picked up on.

“Gentlemen,” I interject, my voice smooth as silk. “Let’s not forget why we’re here. The game waits for no man… or woman.”

A chorus of chuckles follows my statement, the tension easing slightly.

“Speaking of the game,” one of the other players pipes up, “are we playing poker or therapy?”

“Why not both?” Colton quips, his charm effortlessly sliding back into place. “We could make it interesting. Winner gets to psychoanalyze the loser.”

“As if any of us need more fucked up advice,” Rex mutters, but there’s a hint of amusement in his tone now.

I lean forward, my elbows resting on the table. “Careful what you wish for, Colton. Some of us might have more to hide than others.”

With practiced ease, I change the subject slightly, but not before throwing one last jab Rex’s way.

“Still, it’s impressive, isn’t it? Finding someone who fits your…

particular needs.” I say it casually, but the weight behind it is clear.

The other men—especially Tristan Bowman, the manipulative psychiatrist—perk up, sensing there’s more to be uncovered here.

Tristan, ever the one to probe deeper into the psyche, leans forward, his blue eyes gleaming with curiosity and a hint of malice. “You’ve managed to find someone who matches your obsessions perfectly,” he says, his voice smooth and cutting. “That’s rare, Rex.”

I watch Rex’s reaction carefully, savoring the subtle shifts in his expression. His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching beneath the skin. It’s barely perceptible, but to someone like me, it might as well be a neon sign flashing his discomfort.

“You’re assuming quite a lot, Tristan,” Rex responds, his voice low and controlled. But I catch the undercurrent of tension, the slight strain in his words.

Tristan’s lips curl into a smirk. “Am I? I’d say it’s more… professional observation.”

I lean back in my chair, fingers steepled beneath my chin. This is the part I enjoy most—watching these powerful men dance around each other, probing for weaknesses, desperate to maintain their carefully crafted facades.

“Professional observation?” I interject, unable to resist stirring the pot further. “And here I thought you left your work at the office, Tristan. Or do you always psychoanalyze your friends?”

Tristan’s intense gaze shifts to me, a challenge glinting in those swirling hazel eyes. “Friends, Remy? Is that what we are?”

A chuckle ripples around the table, dark and knowing. We all understand the nature of our relationships—alliances born of shared darkness, not friendship.

“Now, now,” Colton cuts in, his charm slicing through the tension like a knife. “Let’s not pretend we’re here for group therapy. Though I must say, the idea is… intriguing.”

I watch as Rex’s fingers twitch toward his glass, a tell he’s trying desperately to hide. “If you’re all quite finished dissecting my personal life,” he growls, “perhaps we could return to the game?”

“Of course,” I reply smoothly, but I can’t resist one final twist of the knife. “After all, we wouldn’t want to keep you from your… perfect match for too long.”

Rex’s eyes lock onto mine, a silent war raging behind that steel-gray gaze. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve pushed too far, if the carefully controlled mask will finally slip.

But then he smiles, cold and sharp as a blade. “Worry about your own life, Remy. Or lack thereof.”

The table falls silent, the tension palpable. I feel a thrill run down my spine, a mix of excitement and something darker. This is the game within the game, the real reason we’re all here. Not for cards or money, but for the delicate dance of power and control.

I lean back, savoring the shift in the conversation. Luka’s question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. I watch as the masks slip, just a fraction, revealing the darkness that lurks beneath each man’s carefully constructed facade.

“Do any of us really think we can keep someone long-term?” Luka’s voice is quiet, but it cuts through the room like a blade. “We’re too twisted for that.”

His frosted irises fix on Rex, but I can feel the weight of his words settling on all of us. It’s a truth we’ve all danced around but never quite faced head-on.

Nolan Sutton grunts, tossing his chips into the pot with a casual flick of his wrist. “I’ve accepted it,” he mutters, his deep voice carrying the weight of years of isolation and violence. “There’s no happily ever after for us. Just more blood and pain. Apart from Rex for now.”

I can’t help but smirk at that. Rex’s relationship with Laurel has been a point of fascination—and skepticism—for all of us.

“Is that what you think, Nolan?” I ask, unable to resist probing further. “That we’re all destined for solitude?”

Nolan’s dark eyes meet mine, unflinching. “You telling me you see a white picket fence in your future, Remy?”

A chuckle ripples around the table, dark and knowing.

“Maybe Rex’s onto something,” Colton chimes in, his charm barely masking the bitterness in his voice. “Find someone who’s as fucked up as we are. Match made in hell.”

Tristan leans forward, his eyes gleaming with that predatory intelligence that makes him such a dangerous psychiatrist. “But can any of us truly let someone in? To see all the darkness, the obsessions that drive us?”

“Bold of you to assume we haven’t already,” Declan mutters, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the table.

I arch an eyebrow at that. “Care to elaborate, Declan? Sounds like there’s a story there.”

Declan’s green eyes flash with something dangerous. “We all have our ghosts, Remy. Some of us just choose to keep them closer than others.”

The tension around the table ratchets up another notch. We’re treading on dangerous ground now, each man guarding his secrets while simultaneously probing for weaknesses in the others.

“Maybe that’s the key,” Luka muses, his voice barely above a whisper. “Finding someone who can dance with our demons without getting consumed by them.”