Prologue

PROLOGUE

DOMINIC

“I can be obsessive about my interests.” That was my reply to the therapist’s question about myself.

She lifted her eyes from the notepad, intrigued but careful. “Obsessive?”

I nodded.

“Alcohol?”

I slowly shook my head with a small smirk on my lips.

“Drugs?”

It would’ve been easier if it were drugs. At least addiction to substances could be cured.

“Women?”

Woman, I corrected in my head.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. The smirk on my lips told her everything she needed to know.

Her eyes flickered to my mouth before she caught herself and swallowed hard. Interesting. She was trying too hard to maintain her composure.

I was used to that and that’s why she intrigued me. She blatantly rejected my advances, when I could have given her everything she wanted and more.

“Do you often give in to whatever it is that you want?” she asked and turned back to her notepad, ready to write.

Not really. Wanting something and having it were two different things. There was no fun in easy wins. I liked the chase, the slow build-up, and the tension before the fall.

I slightly leaned forward and watched the way her fingers tensed around her pen. “No,” I said finally.

Her shoulders relaxed just a little but she wasn’t foolish enough to be at ease in my presence. “Why not?”

I swirled the wine glass in my hand, watching the red liquid slowly move around. It reminded me of the thing I loved most. Blood.

“Because I’ll lose,” I simply said.

She frowned slightly and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “And you don’t like to lose?”

Exactly.

Winning wasn’t just a desire, it was a necessity. Every move I made was calculated, without any form of weakness. And yet, the thought of her scattered that order. I hated her for it, and I wanted her for it.

The therapist shifted in her chair, feeling uncomfortable in the thick silence. She was nervous. Good.

I leaned back, watching the slight rise and fall of her chest. I enjoyed fear. I enjoyed how people thought they could hide it from me, but it was always there, just under the surface.

“…About your obsessive personality,” she said, hesitating for the first time, “how do you cope with it?”

I sighed deeply, and rolled my shoulders as if the conversation bored me. I set my glass down with a soft clink and rose to my feet. I adjusted the cuffs of my shirt as I strode toward the door.

“I don’t.”

She furrowed her brows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

With my hand on the doorknob, I glanced at her over my shoulder. Her throat bobbed slightly, giving away the calmness she tried to portray.

Good.

“When I obsess, Francisca…” I drawled, then I let out a knowing smile. “There’s no fixing it.” And with that, I walked out.