Page 94 of Reckless Obsession

The silence after my accusation is suffocating. Tristan stares at me, eyes dark and unreadable, jaw locked so tight I can see the muscle ticking.

Then something in him snaps.

“You really think that low of me?” His voice starts dangerously low, the kind of quiet that means the real anger hasn’t even fully surfaced yet. “You think I fucked you raw on Monday, called you baby while I was buried inside you, and then crawled into bed with Jake that same fucking night?”

“Yes!” I shout, stepping closer until there’s barely any space left between us, my chest rising and falling so hard it almost hurts. “Because he still walks in here like he owns you! He slept in your apartment, in your fucking bedroom and you just let him! What the hell was I supposed to think?”

Tristan’s eyes flash with fury. The kind of anger that finally breaks through the surface and makes him look less polished and untouchable. He steps forward until we’re toe to toe, towering over me with that same heavy, dominant presence that always does something twisted to my body no matter how angry I am.

“You’ve got some fucking audacity coming into my house and trying to dictate who I can and cannot sleep with,” he growls, voice low and lethal. His eyes harden as he stares down at me, all hard edges and dangerous calm. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to calm the fuck down and let me explain. I don’t owe you that explanation—let’s be clear on that—but I’m giving it to you out of courtesy and because I’m the one who invited you here in the first place.”

This absolute motherfucker.

A scoff rips out of me, and I jab two fingers directly into the center of his chest, hard enough to mean something, glaring up at him with every shred of wounded fury I have left.

“How about you take your explanation and shove it straight down your fucking esophagus?”

I don’t even get the chance to step back.

One second I’m standing there, pointing at him, and the next his hand is around my throat and my back slams into the wall so hard that the breath leaves my body in a rush. He pins me there with a controlled, furious certainty that makes my mind go completely blank for one long, stunning second.

My eyes go wide because, first of all, I was not expecting that. Second of all, I definitely was not expecting him to snap like this. Third of all—and this is the most humiliating part of all that I will take to my grave—it should not be this hot. It should not, under any circumstances or interpretation of this situation, register as anything other than alarming.

I am in the middle of the worst kind of jealous spiral of my adult life. I have just accused this man of sleeping with his ex-husband on the same day he fucked me, and my brain… my absolutely traitorous, unhinged, deeply unhelpful brain… has decided that now is an excellent time to notice how warm his hand is against my pulse.

God. Fucking. Damn it.

“Do not test me, Maksim.” His voice is low enough now that I feel it more than I hear it. “I am doing my absolute best to keep up with your tantrums and with you in general, because somehow you have made it your personal mission to come into my life every few days and leech every last drop of composure I have left.”

That should piss me off more than it does. Instead, it just makes me want to push him harder. Which probably says something deeply wrong about me, but that’s not exactly breaking news.

“Well,” I say, still glaring at him even though his hand is still around my throat, which I enjoy way too much for this to be a fair fight, because apparently I have no survival instinct where Tristan Sinclair is concerned. “Did you fuck him or not?”

He looks at me for a second that lasts entirely too long.

“No,” he finally replies.

One word.

Just one.

But it comes out so clean, absolute, and unhesitating that it hits me squarely in the chest before I can defend against it. The relief that follows is so immediate, so enormous, and so completely humiliating that I have nowhere to put it; it sits in my ribcage, taking up space and making everything feel suddenly too big, quiet, and honest.

“Then why didn’t you just say that?” I ask, and I hate that my voice cracks mid-sentence.

His jaw clenches.

“Because you didn’t give me time to explain, did you?” he grits out. “You decided what happened before I spoke, building a story in your head—Jake in my bed, me wanting him back, you not being a good fuck—and brought it to me already finished.” He steps closer, his hand tightening at my throat, forcing my chin higher to meet his gaze. “That’s not you asking me, Maksim. That’s you spiraling, drowning in your head and dragging me with you.”

Something in me goes very still.

Because he’s right, and I despise him for being right with every single cell in my body.

“He was drunk,” Tristan continues, his voice lower now, still hard but more even. “He came here at three in the morning completely wasted. He does that sometimes. I wasn’t going to send him back out in that state, not that late, so I put him in the guest room.” His eyes stay on mine, unwavering. “I have no idea how his jacket ended up in my bedroom, but I sure as hell didn’t put it there and that’s the truth of it.”

The guest room.

Not the bedroom.