Page 129 of Cruel Obsession

That voice.

I know that voice. Iknowit. The cadence, the pitch, the way certain words lift at the end—it’s… Mirabel’s voice. But something’s off. Something’s wrong. Like hearing a recording of a song you like, where all the notes are right, but the lyrics feel incomplete.

It can’t be.

My rational mind fights to engage over the animal instinct screaming at me to charge through that door. Whatever sick game my father’s playing, whatever twisted performance he’s orchestrating, I need information first. Intelligence before action. Always.

I slide closer to the door, each movement controlled, deliberate. My breathing slows, deepens. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Training kicks in—years of it, decades of learning how to be silent, how to be invisible, how to kill without ever being seen.

The wood feels cool beneath my fingertips as I position myself beside the narrow gap, angling my body to see inside without being spotted. The gun at my hip sits heavy and ready.

“You know what I want,” my father’s voice slithers through the crack, oily and diseased. “Get on your knees, Princess.”

“Gavriil, please. You hurt me so badly last time. I’m still bleeding. Please just let me rest tonight.”

The words make my gut churn. That voice. Christ, thatvoice. My hand moves to my gun without conscious thought, fingers wrapping around the grip.

“Bleeding?” My father laughs, the sound wet and wrong. “That’s how I know I’ve done my job properly. Now, get on your fucking knees.”

What the fuck is happening?

My mind races, trying to piece together the impossible. This is Mirabel’s voice. Mirabel’s plea. But… it’s just not right.

“Please,” she begs again, and now I can hear it—the subtle differences. The voice is Mirabel’s, yes, but there’s something underneath it. Something broken. My stomach twists, bile rising hot and acidic. I force it down. Later. I can be sick later. Right now, I need to understand what I’m dealing with.

“I like it when you beg. You’re my favorite, you know that?” My father’s voice turns conversational, almost fond. “All those other girls… they’re just business. Inventory. But you? You’re mine. My special little princess.”

“Gavriil,” she chokes out. “Please, if you care, you’ll give me time to—”

The sound of flesh striking flesh rings out sharp and sudden. A slap. Then another. The woman cries out.

“I’ll decide when you need time, Princess,” my father sneers. “I handle my property however I want.”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers.

“And you love it, don’t you? You love belonging to me.” There’s a breathless edge to his voice. Jesus Christ, the sick fuck is getting off on this bullshit.

“Yes,” the woman whispers, and the defeat in that single word makes me want to storm in there right now and rip off his balls. “Yes, Gavriil.”

I edge even closer to the doorway, pressing my back against the wall, waiting for the right moment to strike. The living room comes into view through the narrow gap, and the sight before me rewrites everything I thought I knew about my father’s depravity.

He’s standing in the center of the room, still fully clothed in one of his tailored suits. Always pristine, always proper. Still a monster wrapped in expensive fabric.

In front of him stands a woman in nothing but a thin robe that hangs open, exposing her completely. Her back is to me, but her form—

Jesus.

The curve of her spine. The exact placement of her shoulders. The way her hair falls in waves down to the middle of her back. Even the tilt of her head, that specific angle that Mirabel uses when she’s uncertain, when she’s afraid.

It’s identical.

Every curve, every line of her body matches Mirabel’s exactly. Not similar. Not close.Exact.

My brain tries to reject what my eyes are showing me. Because something…somethingis wrong.

“Such a beautiful body,” my father murmurs, running his hands over her shoulders, down her arms. “Turn around,” he orders. “Let me see you properly.”

“Please, I just want to rest—”