Page 37 of Captured Obsession

His hand slides from my hip, along the waistband of my shorts, and comes to a stop over my bellybutton. I lean against him, my body knowing of other ways it can enjoy a release, and I find myself saying, “You're not taking advantage of your student right now, are you?”

“That's precisely the type of guy I am. You didn't think my time was free, did you?”

I can't help but smile since I practically said the same thing to him before. But to my surprise, he steps away, even though I could feel how hard he was, his erection pressing into my back. However, he acts unbothered as he bends down to grab another knife.

As he hands it to me, he says, “I won't reward you with my cock until you're already hot and sweaty,mishka. Or until you hit the target on your own.”

I take the knife. “You say it as if I want your hands on me.”

An arrogant half smile spreads on his lips. And for some reason, I home in on the scar marring his otherwise perfect face, thinking he wouldn’t be Nikolai without it.

“Your body doesn’t lie. Now, throw,” he says as he takes a seat on a fallen log.

It's dark out here now, the light of the half-moon and the distant glow of the manor being all the illumination I have, but my eyes have already adjusted.

My aim, however, has much to be desired, and I grow more frustrated. Especially once all six knives have been thrown, and Nikolai stands to collect them and reset me.

I throw twenty times, sometimes hitting the target, but with a lack of force to embed them into the tree, and other times it simply hits handle first. But in thatfrustration, I find myself more focused and determined.

The more that I look at my ex-fiancé's face, the angrier I become. All those emotions that have been eating away at me bubble to the surface, and I find myself wanting more and more to hit the mark.

Because I know I can do it.

“Relax your wrist,” Nikolai instructs.

“Iamrelaxing my wrist,” I grit.

He nods in mock agreement as he moves through the dark to collect the other knives. “I thought you said you really hate this guy, but maybe you still have feelings for him after all,” he goads.

“I don’t still have feelings for him,” I bite out. Because that's the truth. I'm mad and hurt by what he did to me. But even before I found him cheating, I knew in my heart we were becoming disconnected, which is why I moved to London to be with him.

“Maybe it's not that you’re mad at him, and that you’re actually disappointed in yourself,” Nikolai states.

Something snaps in me, and I throw the knife at him, furious and intent on further marring that pretty fucking face of his. He moves only slightly, and I gasp as the blade slices his cheek before sinking into the tree behind him, smack bang in the forehead of one of the photos of my ex.

My hand comes to my mouth as I see blood trail down his cheek. “Oh my God. I'm so sorry.”

I’m frozen in place when he smiles, his white teeth flashing in the dark, because it reminds me of a beast’s fangs when they're hunting their prey.

I hate that he’s right about me being disappointed in myself. It was because of how I overextended myself instead of prioritizing myself that makes me most angry. And the shame of having such a public breakup didn't help. Holding your head high when everyone knows your business is excruciating.

He casually wipes his cheek and then runs his thumb over his tongue as he stares at me. My instincts are screaming for me to run, but my feet won’t move.

I stepped too far this time. Who am I? Why the fuck would I ever throw a knife at a living person?

He starts toward me, the sound of dry grass crunching beneath his boots louder with each step. My heart is pounding. I should run, but it’s too late. He's towering over me now, raising the blade in his hand toward me. My throat bobs at the cool touch of the tip as it lightly presses under my chin. He uses it to angle my face up so I’m looking directly in his eyes.

“It feels good, doesn't it? Exhilarating even?” he purrs, and liquid warmth floods between my legs. Because this is what Nikolai does, bringing the most feral parts of me to the forefront.

“Yes,” I say breathlessly, not even knowing this version of myself but wanting to explore more of her. Wanting to explore him. “What's it like to take someone's life?” I ask, surprised by my interest.

What sounds like a growl escapes his throat.

“It can be the best feeling ever, or sometimes it feels like nothing at all,” he says as he skims the tip of the blade down my throat, barely touching me, before resting it at the opening of my shirt. There’s an intoxicating challenge is in his gaze, as if he’s expecting me to pull away.

My heart pounds with both fear and a carnal desire I've never known. It consumes all of me, and the only way I stop myself from reaching out for him is by asking, “You don't think it's wrong?”

Because it is wrong, isn't it? It's the most basic thing we’re taught—murder is wrong. And I hate the way he entices me to think otherwise. Not because he's a good person, but because, fuck me, he makes it look so hot.