Page 39 of Cruel Obsession

“I can get a cab,” he protests.

“I know. But I need to.”

Need to memorize him… just in case. The particular shade of gray at his temples. The way his hands make music against any surface when he’s thinking. The specific cadence of his laugh that I haven’t heard in months.

Just in case it’s the last chance I get.

* * *

“You’re going to work forthe wedding guy?” Diane’s voice climbs so high it makes my teeth ache.

I collapse onto our sofa, kicking my shoes across the room where they thud against the wall. “That would be him.”

“Holy fucking shit!” She drops beside me, wine sloshing dangerously in her glass. “The hot asshole with the neck tattoos? The one who publicly humiliated his pregnant fiancée?”

“Five thousand a month, Di.”

“Jesus Christ, Mira.” She gulps wine like it’s water. “So he’s paying you obscene amounts to, what, scrub his toilets?”

“I’m his housekeeper,” I correct her. “And it’s a loan.”

Her expression softens. “For your dad?”

“Ten thousand up front.”

“Jesus.” She sets her wine down. “Mira, you see what this looks like, right?”

I can’t meet her eyes because I do. “It’s not like that.”

“Rich, dangerous man with obvious anger issues and a god complex offers struggling gorgeous girl a suspiciously good salary to live in his isolated mansion and scrub his toilets? Throws cash at her desperate situation?” Her eyebrows vanish into her hairline. “What comes next—special duties that aren’t in the job description?”

“Stop.” But my mind betrays me, replaying the slow drag of his gaze across my body, the subtle flare of his nostrils when I leaned forward, the way his fingers lingered against mine when he passed me the contract. “And I’m not gorgeous. Not by a long shot.”

She gives a snort. “I’m serious, Mira. This isn’t a cheesy romance novel. This is how women disappear.”

“It’s a job, Diane.” I insist, but my voice lacks conviction. “A really well-paying job and a way to help my dad.”

“A job two hours from civilization with a man who might as well have ‘danger’ tattooed across his forehead instead of… What were they again? Birds?”

“Wings,” I correct without thinking. “Black feathers wrapped around his throat.”

“Jesus, you’re already obsessed with him.” She leans forward, suddenly serious. “Really, though. What’s he like? Beyond the drama and the whole broody ‘I’ll destroy what I love’ aesthetic?”

I try to distill Arkady Laurov into something coherent. Something that doesn’t involve the electric current that seemed to pass between us whenever our eyes met, or the way his voice vibrated directly against my skin.

“Intense,” is the word I finally I settle on. “Like he’s stripped down to raw nerves and iron control. And there’s something… wounded about him. Under all that power.”

“Fuck me sideways,” Diane groans. “You’re halfway to Stockholm syndrome already.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I know this story, Mira. Damaged rich guy, innocent girl who thinks she can heal his broken soul with her magic vagina—”

“Diane!” Heat floods my face.

“Am I wrong?” She crosses her arms. “Tell me you don’t find him attractive.”

I open my mouth to deny it, but the lie sticks in my throat. Instead, I steal her wine and drain it.