Page 42 of Reckless Obsession

Then the mug leaves my hand.

It flies across the kitchen and slams into the far wall with a violent crack, shattering on impact as the sound echoes through the room. Ceramic fragments scatter across the tile floor while ginger tea splashes against the white paint, dripping slowly downward.

My chest is heaving now, my breath coming fast and uneven as the anger burns through me like electricity. When my vision finally clears, Alex isn’t looking at me.

He’s looking at Lucas.

The concern on his face hits me like a punch to the gut, and when I glance at Lucas, my heart caves in. He’s drawn slightly into himself, shoulders tense, his breathing coming in small, uneven pants as if he’s trying to steady himself.

The sight knocks the wind out of my anger.

Fuck.

The word echoes in my head, heavy with sudden realization. When my gaze shifts back to Alex, he’s looking at me now, and there’s nothing calm left in his expression. The icy blue of his eyes has hardened into something furious, an anger I’ve never seen directed at me before, no matter how much I’ve pushed his patience.

Seeing it now feels like something tearing open in my chest. I open my mouth, not even sure what I’m about to say, but Alex cuts me off.

“Get out.”

His voice is cold enough to freeze the air.

“Alex—” Lucas starts quietly, something like a plea in his voice.

Alex doesn’t even glance at him.

“Get the fuck out of my house, Maksim,” he says, each word measured and heavy as he steps forward slowly, his gaze locked on mine. “And I mean it. If you’re still standing here in the next second, I will fuck you up.”

❧

Ten minutes.

Ten fucking minutes have passed, and neither of us has said a word.

Joanna sits across from me exactly as she always does: spine straight, ankles crossed, hands resting loosely in her lap. Her face is calm but controlled in that therapist way that makes me want to shake her by the shoulders and demand that she react to something.

Anything.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock on the wall sounds louder every second. It is not even particularly large. It is one of those stupid minimalist things, white-faced with thin black hands. Yet in the silence of her office, it feels enormous.

“So,” I say finally, tilting my head at her. “Are you just going to keep staring at me like I’m a lunatic, or are you planning to speak at some point?”

Joanna is unfazed.

Of course she is.

If I threw the clock through her window, she would probably make a note about emotional regulation and ask me how it made me feel.

There is, however, the faintest spark of amusement in her eyes.

“It has been a while since our last session,” she says calmly. “You missed four appointments, cancelled one at the last minute, and ignored my office’s calls for nearly two weeks.”

“Stalker behavior.”

“Professional concern.”

“Same thing.”