Page 51 of Cruel Obsession

The phone buzzes again, more insistently. Something passes across Arkady’s face—annoyance, perhaps, or resignation. He returns the album to its place on the nightstand.

“Don’t clean in here again without confirming I’m absent,” he says coldly. “And don’t handle things that aren’t your concern.”

“Of course. It won’t happen again.” I turn to bolt, but as I move toward escape, my gaze catches on something tucked beside the bed—a handgun, matte black and meticulously maintained, placed within easy reach. The sight sends an electric jolt through my system—a tangible reminder of who he is, what world he inhabits beyond these walls.

“Mirabel.”

I pause at the threshold, fingers clutching the doorframe, not turning.

“Your father’s treatment,” he says. “The loan. Is it helping?”

The unexpected inquiry draws me back to face him. He stands by the window now, backlit by fading daylight, expression unreadable.

“The doctors see improvement,” I say cautiously. “This round is showing better results than previous attempts.”

Arkady nods once. “Good.”

A beat of silence stretches until I realize he’s not going to say anything else.

I slip through the doorway, pulling it closed behind me. In the hallway, I press my back against the opposite wall, heart thundering against my ribs. Heat pulses between my thighs, persistent and shameful. I press my legs together, trying to ignore the unwanted arousal his naked body triggered, mortified by my body’s betrayal.

Five thousand dollars a month.

Dad’s life.

Focus on that.

But as I force myself away from his door, other thoughts chase me down the corridor: How would those tattoos feel under my fingertips? Would the wings across his chest shift with his breathing if I lay my head against them? Is he as skilled with his hands as their strength suggests?

I press my palm against my mouth, trapping these dangerous questions behind my teeth. I came to Ashwater Heights with absolute purpose—earn money, save Dad, maintain distance. Nothing more.

Yet walking away from Arkady’s room, my skin still tingling, I face an uncomfortable reality: I’m no longer just curious about the man who controls my fate.

I’m drawn to him in ways that terrify me.

Chapter Sixteen

Arkady

It’s been days since she walked through my doors.

Days of torture, watching her move through my house like she belongs here. Like she’s always been here.

I sit at my desk, documents forgotten under my hands, replaying the moment in my bedroom. The shock on her face when she looked up from my album. The way her eyes had widened, traveled down my body, lingered where they shouldn’t. The color spreading across her skin.

My cock throbs painfully against my zipper at the memory. I don’t bother trying to will it away. Useless. Since she arrived, I’ve lived in a state of constant, angry arousal that leaves me raw. Each night, I take myself in hand, grinding brutal strokes along my shaft, and each night her face appears behind my closed eyes as I spill my load.

I should have fired her on the spot. Should have thrown her out for trespassing on my privacy, for touching what wasn’t hers to touch. For seeing Mishka.

Blyad.

When I saw her sitting on my bed, I nearly crossed the room in two strides. Nearly grabbed her by the throat and pushed her into the mattress. Nearly gave in to the hunger that’s been eating me alive since I first saw her at that farce of a wedding. I could have spread her across my sheets, ripped away that prim uniform, and discovered if her skin burned as hot as mine. If she’d fight me or yield. If she’d hate me for taking or hate herself for wanting.

The images cut through me—Mirabel beneath me, dark hair wild across my pillows, eyes glazed with surrender as Iclaimed what she’s been silently offering with every careful glance, every quickened breath when I enter a room.

I slam my fist onto the desk, the sharp pain centering me. This has to stop. She’s my housekeeper. Nothing more. You don’t fuck the help.

The intercom buzzes, yanking me back to reality. “Arkady,” Stefan’s voice crackles through the speaker. “I have information. In person.”