Page 72 of Reckless Obsession

“You did,” I reply evenly, giving a small nod. Then, because I can’t resist testing the chain just a little tighter—because part of me wants to know how far this tightrope stretches—I add, “But has anything happened to make you think we’ve gone past that? Anything concrete?”

His jaw clenches hard enough that I can see the muscle jump beneath the skin. His eyes stay locked on mine, cold and unyielding, but there’s tension thrumming in the air between us now, two men who know each other’s edges too well.

He’s watched me grow into the man sitting in front of him. He knows what I’m capable of, what I’ve done, what I would do if pushed far enough. He’s seen me stare down threats that would break lesser men, watched me face death head-on without flinching. He knows I don’t scare easy. Knows threats don’t move me. But this is personal. This is about blood. His blood. His favorite son.

He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping against the desk before going still again. When he speaks, his voice drops lower, carrying the weight of memory.

“You’ve known him since he was fourteen.”

It’s not a question but a fact heavy with implication.

“I have,” I say, keeping my tone even, though something tightens in my chest.

“And you were twenty-four.”

“I was.”

The silence after that feels like it’s been sharpened. Pavel watches me, unblinking, letting the years hang between us. And when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. But it lands harder, laced with something more complicated than anger.

“He had a crush on you back then.”

The words hit differently. Not like the first question’s blade, not like the warning’s ice. This is memory and history. This is the thing I’ve been running from since the first time Maksim looked at me with eyes too old for fourteen, too direct, and too knowing.

And he still does. Eight years later, it’s still there in every glance, every barbed comment, every moment he pushes just to see if I’ll push back.

These past few weeks, I’ve been falling into his trap, giving him pieces of what he’s wanted and taking pieces of what I’ve denied myself, knowing full well it’s a disaster hurtling towards us both at full speed.

“Maksim’s always been drawn to men older than him,” Pavel says, shaking his head faintly, the gesture carrying years of weary resignation. “It’s his pattern. He fixates. Convinces himself it’s something deeper, more real…” His voice trails off, then hardens. “And then it ends in one of two ways: a pen through their neck… or them left heartbroken, barely breathing.”

The implication weighs heavy between us. I hold his gaze with a blank expression, feeling a tight coil in my chest. Not anger, not discomfort, but something intense I can’t name.

“What are you trying to say?” I ask, my voice level, controlled.

Pavel leans forward slightly, his forearms resting on the desk, his presence expanding without effort.

“What I’m saying,” he begins, slower now, “is that I do not want anything between you and my son.”

There’s no hesitation. No softening.

“It would be a disaster for both of you,” he continues, his eyes locking onto mine with a weight that feels intentional. “You know what people will say. And not just people.” A brief pause. “I will think that way. His mother will lose her mind if she hears something like that. And his brothers?” his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “They will not support it. They don’t play when it comes to him.”

The message is clear.

Crystal clear.

I grind my teeth hard enough that I feel it in my jaw, a dull pressure building behind the restraint I force myself to maintain. Because I do know what people will think. I’ve known it from the moment this situation stopped being simple.

But I don’t let any of that show.

Instead, I let out a quiet scoff, leaning back slightly in my chair, as if none of this is landing the way he intends.

“There’s nothing going on between your son and I,” I say evenly, my tone almost detached. “And the threats feel… unprofessional, Mr. Petrov. Our families have worked together for decades.”

Pavel nods once, the movement measured, as his expression shifts—less personal now, just more composed and businesslike.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ve known your father for thirty years, and his law firm has been the backbone of my company since then.”

The tension in the room tightens like a wire pulled too far. There’s no warmth left in his eyes. Just calculation and certainty.