Stay With Me, page 1
STAY WITH ME
Dangerous Obsession
Book 1
NIKKI SLOANE
Contents
Author’s Note
Content Warning
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
Keep Me Safe
Acknowledgments
Also by Nikki Sloane
About the Author
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2026 by Nikki Sloane
Cover photography © NewAfrica - DepositPhotos
Cover photography © FabrikaPhoto - Envato Elements
Cover design © Shady Creek Designs
Barre Edition
Author’s Note
I previously published Stay With Me in 2014 as Stay under the name Karyn Lawrence.
This completely rewritten version features a point-of-view switch, more spice, and 16,000 words of additional content. I hope you enjoy this steamy, action-packed ride.
Content Warning
This book contains graphic violence, murder, kidnapping, captivity, stalking, gaslighting/manipulation, and explicit sex.
For Nick
Prologue
NOW
LAUREL
My hands reached behind to grasp the cold metal railing while I sucked the pre-dawn air into my lungs.
What the hell?
I stood precariously on the ledge of a balcony with my toes curled over the edge. This, and my death-grip on the wrought iron at my back, were all that kept me from plunging to the rocks far below.
Water lapped against the cliff. I hated heights. So why on Earth was I out here?
I tried to steady my breathing and keep my gaze up, but my legs shook. I shivered in the cold wind, making the railing rattle. A panicked whimper escaped from my lips as I pivoted on my heel, turning until the rail slammed into my stomach, but I didn’t care.
At least I could cling to two things now. The wrought iron, and the illusion I was safely back on the stone balcony.
I took another breath and launched myself up and over the railing. It wasn’t pretty, but both feet hit the ground, meaning I was still alive. My teeth chattered because I was only wearing silk pajama pants and a camisole top.
Across the balcony, a robe was draped over a patio chair.
I slipped my arms into it as I tried to remember why I’d taken it off, but sharp, agonizing pain sliced through my head. I moved my fingers up to the nape of my neck, and then up into my hair where it ached the most.
There was a large wound near the crown of my skull.
It wasn’t fresh, but not yet healed, either. Something foreign and sharp was embedded in my skin. The hair around it felt like it had been shaved at one point but had started to grow back. I turned to face the house as reality washed over me.
Nothing was familiar. Not this place, not my clothes, not how I got here. I pushed a strand of brown hair out of my eyes. Holy crap, not even my hair color seemed right. The force of it all almost knocked me off my feet.
I couldn’t remember.
It was all just empty.
I trembled and cinched the robe tighter, eyeing the railing. What had I been doing out there?
A single word echoed through my mind, which was terrifying . . . Suicide.
“Hey.” His voice was soft, but I jumped anyway. “What are you doing?”
The man used the heel of his palm to grind the sleep from one eye. He wore a plain t-shirt and flannel pajama pants, and his mahogany hair was askew. Taller than average, and likely in his thirties. I peered at his face, tried to force myself to recognize him. He was attractive and seemed to know me, so surely I should remember him.
Nothing.
“What are you doing up?” he asked.
I didn’t say anything, because what would I say?
“Well, we’re awake. You want coffee?” He turned to head back in through the French doors he’d strolled through.
I stayed deathly quiet. Everything was too overwhelming.
When I didn’t respond, he stopped and focused on me, concern washing through his expression. “What is it?”
I held up a hand and gestured to the surroundings. I still couldn’t bring myself to choke out anything, but the panic in my eyes must have spoken for me. The unease in him grew ten-fold and, when he tried to approach, I shuffled backward instinctively.
It caused him to stop short and look defeated. “You don’t know who I am.”
“I don’t.” It came out as a whisper, but the words crushed him all the same.
“We were in a car accident. A pretty horrific one, so it’s good you don’t remember it. That’s our silver lining to this whole thing.” He drew in a heavy breath, perhaps considering his next words. “There was a significant bleed in your brain, and they had to keep you in a medically induced coma for a week. The day they discharged me and you were still under was the worst day of my life.”
“When was that?” I had been so focused on his words I hadn’t been aware of his subtle approach.
“Five weeks ago.” He took my hand, a foreign gesture from a stranger which made me uncomfortable. “You were doing really well. There was still a lot you couldn’t remember from before the accident, but you were making new memories. The doctor warned me you might have a relapse as the swelling went down. We’ve got an appointment with him later today to remove the staples.”
Staples. That was what my fingers had found buried in the gash on my head.
It was embarrassing to ask it. “Who are you?”
“I’m Ryan Juric, your fiancé.” He squeezed my hand and held it up for me to see. The enormous diamond engagement ring on my left hand was stunning.
“That reaction never gets old,” he said. “We’ve put it off until your recovery is . . . farther along.”
I shivered, although something in my head whispered it wasn’t from the breeze.
“What were you doing out here?”
My gaze flicked over to the edge of the balcony.
“I don’t know.” My voice trembled. “I don’t really know anything.”
“Your name is Laurel Hayward.” He gauged my reaction. “Not ringing any bells this time either, huh?”
I pressed my lips together and shook my head.
“Hey. It’s okay. You’re lucky to be alive. Really, we both are. I know this is scary, but be patient. It’ll come back. It doesn’t seem like it, but you’re going to be okay.”
Nothing felt okay right now.
My focus moved away from him and drifted to our surroundings. The large stone balcony was level with the treetops that dotted the steep cliff. Attached to the balcony, a house—large and impressive, and something odd I couldn’t place.
“We live here?”
“Yes. You want a tour?”
Maybe something inside would be familiar.
“This way.” He motioned toward the French doors.
The house was warm, but my feet remained blocks of ice. The focal point of the large bedroom was a king-sized four-poster bed. The silver duvet was pushed to one side as if it had been thrown off. One nightstand held a clock and glass of water. The other was bare.
What seized my attention most was the oversized canvas mounted above the headboard. It was a black-and-white, candid-style photo of him and a pretty brunette, smiling at each other while seated in a field of tall grass. The photographer had been successful in capturing a private moment between the two. It was intimate and stunning.
I didn’t have to ask who the girl was. A large mirror over the six-drawer dresser on the other side of the room reflected a robe-clad version of the girl in the picture.
“I’m too skinny,” I said as I corrected my posture.
“You haven’t had much of an appetite. Your doctors said it’s the pain medication.” He grabbed the corner of the duvet and tugged it into place. “Are you hungry?”
&nbs p; “No. Not really.”
“This is the primary bedroom.” He looked at me expectantly. Like maybe this was supposed to be our room, but it wasn’t.
I didn’t know what to say. “It’s nice.”
“Yeah. I’m not completely sold on this comforter, but it’s a good compromise. You wanted lavender.” He half-smiled as he recalled the memory. I stared vacantly at the bed, then upward at the picture again.
“The bathroom’s this way.”
I followed him through the door, and when the overhead light jumped to life, I inhaled quickly.
“I forgot about the light, sorry.”
As I surveyed that room, I noticed the same thing as the bedroom. One countertop by a sink was cluttered with a man’s razor, contact solution, and toothbrush, while the other was empty. Where was my stuff? And why were all the labels in a language I couldn’t read?
We continued along, Ryan showing off more of the house, seemingly unaware that my anxiety was building to an unmanageable level. He didn’t notice how I was trembling.
“Stop,” I said when we stood in the kitchen, grabbing a box of something that looked like it contained cereal from the counter. “Tell me what language this is.”
He took it and set it back down. “Croatian.”
“Why is it in Croatian?” I already knew, but I needed to hear him say it.
“Because we’re just outside the city of Dubrovnik, Croatia.”
I felt like I was standing at the edge of a stage, about to fall off. It was strange that my nationality was the only thing I had any certainty about. “I’m not American?”
“No, you are. I have dual citizenship, and I thought it was best for you to recover here.”
“Why?” My heart thudded in my chest. I had no idea where home was, but this kitchen felt like it was a million miles from it.
“The doctor warned me not to overwhelm you, and we can get into my reasons later. I know you’re not hungry, but let’s get some eggs in you before the appointment.”
He had an edge in his tone which let me know he wouldn’t be easy to persuade otherwise. I sank into a seat at the breakfast bar and said nothing, watching him as he cooked.
Eventually, the silence got to me, and I asked about his career.
“I’m the COO of my family’s business,” he said.
“What do you do?”
“Meetings, mostly,” he responded, misinterpreting my question. “I never thought I’d end up stuck in conference rooms all day.”
“Well, business must be good. Your house is impressive.”
He set the plate of scrambled eggs before me. “Our house.”
“It’s a bizarre feeling, a stranger who’s so familiar with you.” I didn’t mean for it to be hurtful. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong.”
“It’s fine,” he said, a little too quickly.
I felt bad and picked up my fork. Perhaps eating his food might smooth things over.
“How are they?”
“Good. Thank you.” My stomach churned as I forced another bite.
I studied him as he poured a cup of coffee. He was the type of guy most women would covet. I couldn’t help but wonder why I felt no hint of possessiveness.
When I’d finished eating enough to satisfy him, he set my plate in the sink and motioned to the doorway. “Want to continue the tour?”
“Sure.”
We journeyed on to the home office. The gray walls and oversized black desk were surprisingly generic in the otherwise gorgeous home. It was meticulously clean as well, to the point I wondered if the surfaces were medical grade sterile.
“I hardly use it, so we didn’t want to waste money on a decorator.”
I nodded and tried not to look uncomfortable. The final room was the guest bedroom, which solved the question of where I had been sleeping.
It was slightly smaller than the primary but no less elegant. A five-by-seven framed picture of Ryan on the right side of the nightstand was ringed with prescription bottles.
“You’ve been staying here since you came home.” Once again, there was a hint of sadness in his voice.
“Oh,” was all I could muster.
He glanced at the clock. “The bathroom’s through there, and your clothes are in the closet.” He motioned to the doorway to the left of the bed. “Our appointment is not for a few more hours, so take as long as you need. Since I’m up, I’ve got some proposals I need to look over.”
I glanced around the unfamiliar room. The disorientation caused a weird sort of vertigo, and even though he was currently the only person I knew, the thought of him leaving gave me relief.
“Questions? Can I get you anything before I go?” When I shook my head, he nodded. “Okay. I’ll be in the office if you need me.”
“What if I forget again?”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll find you.” He smiled. “I always do.”
And then he was gone.
I sank down on the unmade bed and tried everything I could to recall something from the day before or the events that led up to the balcony. Doing that brought pain that was immediate and white-hot. I bolted from the bed, dashing toward the bathroom, and barely made it to the toilet in time as the eggs worked their way back up.
When it was over, I collapsed on the cold tile floor and spent a long time there, allowing my stomach to settle. Once it was safe, I pulled myself up onto my unsteady legs and cupped a handful of cold water from the sink to rinse the acid from my mouth. When I turned off the water, I noticed a doorway from the guest room led out onto the balcony.
And that door was ajar.
A dark thought flitted through my damaged mind. Here was this successful, gorgeous man who wanted to marry me, with whom I lived in an amazing house, and he seemed very much in love with me.
Why on Earth was I on the other side of that balcony railing?
1
THEN
LAUREL
The last member of the corps exited stage right and darted past as I waited for my cue.
This is it.
I looked down at my pointe shoes and rolled my ankles, testing the new ribbons for the third time. I’d be taking the biggest steps of my professional career in these, and I’d be damned if they slipped or came undone.
At twenty-six years old, I was finally a principal dancer in the Chicago Ballet Company.
The theater was almost full. It hardly ever sold out anymore, but all the decent seats were gone. On stage, Martin and Albina were in the final choreography of their pas de deux, a lovely piece where Albina’s lines were breathtaking. I would have watched to the end, but it was taking every fiber of my being to keep my nerves at bay.
The music finished, and the pair of dancers exited to thunderous applause. Both winded, they passed by and flashed brilliant smiles. I was in their elite club now.
I floated across the floor to my mark and set.
The theater quieted as I waited for the orchestra to start the next movement. The moment the flutist breathed life into her instrument, a calm spread through me.
“Beast,” the director had called me in the final rehearsal. I’d worked so hard to get to this moment, and as the music swelled, my adrenaline surged. Tonight, I’d be a force who commanded the audience’s attention.
Blood rushed in my ears, but the work felt effortless as I nailed every turn and soared with each leap.
It wasn’t just powerful. It was magical.
And, God, how I wished this moment could last forever. There was an electric charge in the air—one which let me know I had the audience with me. As if they were on the edges of their seats, breathless.
Finishing my final jeté, I jerked when a loud crack rang out.
The sound was disorienting, but I pushed on with my choreography, refusing to let it derail me. What was going on, and where had it come from? The boxes to the right?
A horrified scream made the orchestra peter out, and I stumbled out of my pirouette, forced to identify the sound. My blood turned to slush, awareness seizing me.
Was that a gunshot?
I turned into a statue on center-stage while the theater became a sea of chaos. People scrambled for the doors, climbing over each other while others ducked between the rows of seats.
