Page 12 of Reckless Obsession

My brows dip. I want to snap something like ‘I’d rather die’ or some other snark to rile him up, but it’d be a waste. Tristan’s like stone; he doesn’t get riled. He’d look at me as a waste of time and go about his day.

So I let out a sigh and follow him out of the station. When we get to the parking lot, he gestures to the passenger side of his car as he opens the driver’s side. I stop in my tracks and give him a stubborn look.

His brow rises, and he fixes me with a stern look, one that says he’s not in the mood for my snark. Well, I’m not in the mood for his nonchalance right now, and I can gladly take myself home.

“You’ve got three seconds to get in the car,” he says evenly, “or—”

“Or what?” I tilt my head, daring him. “You’ll lecture me to death?”

That does it.

He slams the driver’s side shut so hard and marches toward me, anger radiating off him. He stops in front of me, the few inches he has on me letting him look down at me as if I’m nothing. I glare right back, even though my heart pounds like a fool at his proximity. Rage and want twisting in my gut.

“Get in the fucking car, Maksim,” he says, his voice dangerously low. “The last thing you want is for me to drag you back to that station. I don’t give a flying fuck how much influence your family has, but just know you won’t be coming out of there until I say so.”

Anger blooms inside me so hot my knuckles clench on instinct.

“If your fists touch me, I’ll make you bite the curb,” he grits out, warning lacing his voice. Then he walks to the passenger side and flings the door open. “Get in.”

I grind my teeth in frustration, contemplating my life choices, knowing he’s not bluffing. Then I walk towards the car, giving him a death glare as I settle into the passenger seat. He slams the door, walks to his side, gets into the driver’s seat, and slams that one too.

“Well, someone’s grumpy today,” I mutter. “Didn’t get your morning coffee or what?”

He ignores me and pulls off the lot.

The silence that follows isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy and pressurized. It sits between us like a third body in the car. It’s not the quiet that bothers me. It’s the space. The way we’re close but not close. The way his presence fills the car, his scent clinging to the air, invading my lungs like something I didn’t give permission to breathe in. This proximity is killing me and tearing down my defenses.

I’ve never been this close to him before.

Eight years of knowing Tristan Sinclair, and this—this cramped car, this shared air, this closeness—feels more intimate than anything we’ve ever had. The one night we slept together doesn’t count. That was chaos, heat, alcohol and bad decisions. This is worse. This is controlled and intentional.

Tristan has avoided me like the plague ever since I’ve known him, as if I were something he should dodge or an allergy. Sometimes, I feel he has a natural hatred for me. But most times, I feel he wants me so badly that he hates me for it.

Right now, sitting inches from him, my brain is spiraling and trying to stay afloat while my body betrays me in every possible way. The manic energy hums under my skin, begging me to poke the bear, to light the fuse. At the same time, the depression is creeping in, cold and heavy, whispering that I’m already too much, always too much.

But I need this manic mood to feel the fire with this man. I also want my dick to calm down because it’s noticing his bossiness and is curious about how rough he can get if I provoke him further.

“Why do you do this?” Tristan says suddenly. It’s quiet. Almost careful.

I blink, not even sure I heard him. “What?”

“I said, why do you keep acting like this?” he says, his voice deep and hard, as if it takes all the will in his body to talk to me.

“Like what?” I say with an eye roll. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

He lets out a sound that’s almost a grunt, and before I blink, the car jerks as he pulls over sharply, tires crunching against gravel. The engine dies, and the silence that follows feels like a held breath.

This time, when he fixes his gaze on me, I feel it in the depths of my soul, but I don’t back down. My eyes meet his and hold.

“Do you do shit like this on purpose?” he asks, glaring at me. “Or do you act this way because you know I’ll come to you every time?”

“Oh, fuck off, Tristan,” I say with a scoff. “Not everything is about you, and I didn’t call you. I called Anton.”

“The men you hospitalized are severely injured,” he retorts. “One won't be leaving for months. Do you realize how difficult it was to prevent their families from pressing charges?”

“Well, I’m hurt too,” I snap, shoving my bruised knuckles in his face. “My ribs feel like they’ve been kicked in, so maybe they can send me flowers or something.”

“You started the fight first, Maksim. Do you ever think?” Tristan says. His voice isn’t loud this time, but it’s hard and stern, like a father scolding a child. I hate it so much that it ignites all my anger.