Obsession a thriller rom.., p.1
Obsession : A Thriller Romance, page 1
OBSESSION
A THRILLER ROMANCE
HARLEIGH BECK
Copyright © 2024 by Harleigh Beck
Editing: Nice Girl Naughty Edits
Proofreading: Traversingfiction
Cover: Graphic Escapist
Harleigh Beck has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.
This is a literary work of fiction. Any names, places, or incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Similarities or resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or events or establishments are solely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Trigger warnings
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
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
Epilogue two
Thank you for reading
Also by Harleigh Beck
About the Author
TRIGGER WARNINGS
I’m an author of extremely dark and gritty romances and erotic horrors. This story is no exception. There are no good men or redeemable characters to be found in this book. It romanticizes a serial killer, so I suggest you pass on this book if you’re a sensitive reader.
Remember, it’s fiction. This author doesn’t condone the darker themes within these pages, nor is this story an accurate representation of prison life or the legal system.
I trust you know your triggers and that you read responsibly.
The content warnings include but are not limited to Dub/non-con, sexual assault, graphic murder, graphic torture, dismemberment, blood play, child abuse, and animal cruelty.
PROLOGUE
SAVANNAH
Woody cigar smoke, sour sweat, and beer surround me as my father’s strong arms slide beneath me and tear me from my dreams. He lifts me from the bed, and I only just manage to reach for my teddy in time before he cradles me to his chest. I squeeze it to me, nose buried in its grubby neck.
Usually, Daddy takes me to his bedroom, but not tonight. Instead, he carries me toward the sound of masculine laughter and rock music in the living room.
I’ve always feared the men who come to our house on Wednesday evenings when Daddy puts me to bed. They’re big, smelly, and very loud, reminding me of the scary monsters in the books Daddy reads me sometimes.
Clutching the teddy to my chest, I hide my face in Daddy’s shirt, anchored to his chest by his big arms as we enter the living room.
I don’t like how quiet it is tonight.
I don’t like how I feel them watching me.
Daddy sits us down on a chair that creaks beneath his weight and strokes my hair away from my brow with his fingers that smell of tobacco. “Baby girl, I want you to meet my friends.”
When I clutch my teddy tighter, holding my breath, he coaxes, “They’re very excited to meet you finally.”
I chance a peek, greeted by monster eyes.
Eyes that watch me through swirls of cigar smoke.
Eyes that make me want to run and hide.
Daddy points to the man beside us, who puffs on his cigar in response, yellow teeth coming into view when his lips pull back into a scary smile.
“Say hi to Michael, Savannah.”
Teddy held closely, I mumble into its soft fur, “Hi, Michael.”
“It’s nice to meet you, baby girl,” he responds, smiling like the wolf in the story about three little pigs.
“And this,” Daddy says, pointing to a tall and skinny man across the table, “is Mark.”
Stomach churning, I peer over at him, watching him shuffle cards. Unlike the other man, he chuckles quietly.
Before I can say hi, Daddy introduces the third man, David, who chucks the other man with the cards on the shoulder. “Don’t be a dick.”
“And there’s Andy,” Daddy says, shifting my attention to a blonde man who enters the living room with beer cans. “These are Daddy’s friends from school.”
As Andy puts the beers down, Daddy shifts on the chair, picking up the cards Mark deals on the table. I glimpse a picture of a queen amongst the cards, with hearts in each corner. Daddy puts the cards face down on the table and asks, “Who’s in?”
I shrink back, hiding behind my hair, wanting to jump off Daddy’s lap and run to my room as the men level their dark eyes on me. But Daddy’s arms band around me like the seatbelt in our car or the snake I dreamed about that chased me down a country road. No matter how fast I ran, I couldn’t escape. In the dream, a barn was up ahead with big wooden doors. I dashed inside and tried to close them, but the snake slithered quickly down the road. So, so fast. I wasn’t strong enough to close the barn doors.
My daddy’s arms feel like that snake, like it did when it squeezed me to death.
The man beside us with the wolfish smile throws his first card down and puffs on his cigar.
Flicking ash into an ashtray, he smiles. “Let’s play some cards, baby girl.”
1
SAVANNAH
“I’m sorry, say that again?” I choke out as Elliot splutters, “No way!” beside me.
Ignoring him, I stare at my boss, James, who scratches his temple, clearly uncomfortable.
His small office, with news articles lining the walls, a desk, which is his pride and joy, and a lone bookshelf, feel even smaller now that Elliot’s anger sucks out all the oxygen.
“I admit it’s not ideal—” he starts, but Elliot cuts him off.
“Why would Robbie Hammond, one of the most notorious serial killers in the country, refuse to be interviewed by anyone else but her?” He waves in my general direction. “Why her?”
Sucking on my teeth, I cross my arms, ignoring the spark of annoyance in me at his crappy attitude. Despite my dislike for him, he has a point. I’ve only worked for the paper for a little under two months, and suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, the paper gets an interview request from none other than Robbie Hammond, but with one stipulation—it has to be me.
In exchange for an exclusive, he has agreed to let me interview him for an hour once a week leading up to his scheduled execution next year. It’s a big fucking deal, one our small newspaper can’t turn down. It would be foolish to.
But why me specifically?
Unease and intrigue war inside me. However, I’m also flattered, which is alarming as hell. Who wants to catch the attention of a killer? More importantly, how did it even happen? He’s been locked away for sixteen years.
My curiosity resembles a weedy patch on a lawn at this point. Regardless of how I try to contain it, it’s becoming uncontrollable. I want to find out why he chose me and not the successful, hardworking reporter beside me who’s currently glaring daggers my way.
Elliot has always been intense. When I set foot inside this building, he was the first to introduce himself.
James clears his throat, straightening his askew tie. “It’s out of my hands, Elliot. Besides, this could be a good opportunity for Savannah. Yes, she’s new, but I am confident she will do well.”
“Let me accompany her, at least,” Elliot demands, making me narrow my eyes on him.
“What’s your fucking problem?” I growl.
“Now, let’s not argue—”
Elliot turns toward me, shoulders stiff. “My fucking problem? Robbie Hammond is a serial killer, or have you forgotten?”
I snort. “It’s not like I’ll be alone with him.”
“That’s beside the point. He’ll manipulate you—”
“Manipulate me?” I snap, anger flushing through me. “Do you not think I can handle myself?”
“Why do you think he demanded you?”
James watches our exchange tiredl y, hands flat on the table, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.
Elliot and I have clashed heads ever since we first met, because he’s a competitive asshole who won’t back off. I took this job out of sheer desperation after an email dropped in my inbox one day advertising for a reporter.
When I showed up for the interview, James looked surprised, claiming he knew nothing about an advertisement, but admitted he could do with someone as seemingly eager as me.
And so here I am, refusing to let my colleague intimidate me because he hoped that this job would land on his table.
“You’re just jealous, that’s all it is,” I spit, barely restraining an eye roll.
James pours himself a glass of water and gulps it down.
Sneering, Elliot turns on his heel and storms out, but before he slams the door shut, he points a finger at me, “You better not mess up this opportunity. Do you have any idea what this could do for our paper?”
I flip him off, ignoring James’s tired groan as the door shuts.
Dragging his hands down his perspiring face, he blows out a long breath. “You two are going to be the death of me one day.”
“I think he took it quite well,” I snark.
James shakes his head, sitting back.
“It’ll do him well to take his pride down a peg,” I remind him, but he just waves me off.
“The first interview is tomorrow, 10 a.m. sharp.” He studies me for a long moment, his gaze flicking past me to the door. “He’s right, you know. It is a big opportunity for this paper. Are you sure you’re up for the task?”
Stiffening, I straighten my spine. “Of course I am.”
My ego stings at the doubt on his face. How difficult can it be to interview a condemned serial killer, even if they prey on women like myself? He’s locked up, after all.
A small, niggling voice at the back of my mind whispers I’m naive, but the stubborn side of me quiets that voice, focusing instead on the suffocating curiosity within me.
Why me, Robbie Hammond?
My gaze skates across the white-painted walls, the metal table in the middle, and the barred window to my left that overlooks the tall wire fences outside. An obnoxiously loud clock on the wall ticks down the minutes until I’ll be face to face with the country’s most notorious serial killer, Robbie Hammond.
I’m still surprised to be here. James wanted someone with more experience than me. Someone like Elliot. Not a woman in her early twenties and brand new at the paper. But I need this opportunity to show my potential. Unfortunately, I won’t get anywhere in this business unless I put myself out there.
So far, I’ve had a small weekly column, and this is my chance at something bigger. Something that will give me headline news.
“Don’t let yourself be charmed by him. He’s a serial killer who murdered fourteen women,” Claire, the elderly receptionist lady at the office, said to me when I told her I’d been appointed this job.
Charmed by him? He’s nearly twice my age at forty-five.
Chewing on my bottom lip, a nervous trait of mine, I peer at the clock on the wall. I’ve waited for ten minutes.
My knee jiggles. I’m excited about this opportunity, but I’m also anxious as hell.
Blowing out a breath, I look out the window at the miserable, rainy weather, just as a breeze whips through the trees past the perimeters of the high-security prison.
As I shift in my seat, I fight the urge to rub my damp palms on my thighs.
I tear my gaze away from the view outside when the door opens, and an officer escorts Robbie inside. His hands and ankles are shackled, and his white prison outfit strains against his broad shoulders. I scan his impressive build, wondering how a man like Robbie can stay in such good shape while locked up in this place.
The moment his ice-blue eyes lock on mine, my spine stiffens. The guard unlocks his shackles, and Robbie sits down as I glance at the officer, who goes to stand by the door. Robbie never takes his eyes off me.
Sweat beads on my neck, causing my hair to stick to my skin.
“You’re Savannah Campbell from Atley Hill News?” His gravelly voice cracks through the silence like booming thunder.
Clearing my throat, I raise my hand to rub at my nape before catching myself. I lower it again and offer him a nervous smile. “Yes, I am.” I reach for my badge, which hangs from a lanyard around my neck. His blue eyes flick down, then back up to my face just as fast.
“It’s nice to meet you, Savannah.”
His baritone is rich and smooth, like caramel, and soothing in a way I never expected. Not for a man who slaughtered women in cold blood.
His tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip. He lets his gaze cruise down my white blouse before he asks, “Did you bring a voice recorder?”
I jump into action, retrieving my bag off the floor and rooting through it. “Of course. It’s in here somewhere.” I finally pull it out and place it on the table. With one final look at the bored officer at the door, who’s staring straight ahead at nothing, I press record.
Robbie watches me with a small smirk as though he knows his effect on me. How unnerved I feel by his presence. There’s a magnetism about him that sets me on edge. He’s dangerous, but I already knew that as soon as he entered the room. Every cell in my body knew it.
Where’s this idea coming from that serial killers are sleazy, socially awkward, balding middle-aged men? Robbie Hammond is attractive, in good shape.
A small part of me also enjoys the thrill of knowing how deadly he is.
Robbie keeps watching me, and I try not to fidget beneath the intensity of his attention. Maybe he hasn’t seen a lot of women during his time in this miserable place.
“Tell me about yourself, Savannah?” he prompts.
My cheeks warm as I open and close my mouth, surprised by his forwardness. “We’re here to talk about you, Robbie. You asked for these interviews, remember?”
He nudges his chin to my name badge. “That’s a recent photograph. You must be in your early twenties. Less than six months into the job?”
“I know I look young,” I reply. “But is it so obvious I’m new?”
His lips twitch, and he shrugs. “Reporters usually come prepared.”
“I am prepared,” I argue.
He says nothing, but his winged brow irks me. Brushing imaginary lint off my black pants, I clear my throat again. “What made you decide to do interviews, Robbie? Why now?”
Why me?
I look up through my wispy lashes when he stays silent.
In a voice that’s as smooth as honey, he says, “I’m scheduled to die, ma’am. Do you have any idea what that’s like? To wake up every morning knowing the day is getting closer.”
A quick shake of my head is my answer.
Robbie observes me for a long moment, assessing me. There’s no oxygen in this room. “It makes you reevaluate a lot of things.”
“Like what?”
He eases back into his chair and crosses his arms. The action draws my eyes to the straining muscles. “I’m a monster, ma’am. Make no mistake. The things I’ve done…”
The words hang in the air. Dark and ominous. I cling to every one, every intake of breath, every slight ruffle of his prison outfit.
“The answer to your question is simple: I don’t know.” He leans forward across the table, and his scent wraps around me.
Out there, in the real world, men smell of cheap cologne, desperation, and fabric conditioner. This man, this killer, smells of soap, a hint of sweat, and something uniquely him. Something inherently masculine and untamed.
I try not to breathe him in, but it’s impossible when his scent thickens and darkens around me like a storm cloud.
“The victims’ families are out there. Families whose worlds were blown apart because of me. I owe it to them to tell the truth. My truth.” Then he’s gone, relaxing back into his chair, and my oxygen-starved lungs inhale greedily.
It dawns on me that I’m out of my depth, that it was foolish of me to think I had what it took to interview a man as notorious and intimidating as Robbie.
I can’t help but stare at his veiny hands and long fingers. Hands that have killed. Hands that have caused pain and suffering.
There’s a flutter between my legs.
A flutter that shouldn’t be there.
