Page 81 of Cruel Obsession

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Mirabel

I push the door of The Copper Kettle open, and the familiar scent of coffee washes over me—rich and comforting.

This place, with its bright plastic chairs and colorful walls, has been my escape for years. My mandatory day-off breakfast, a ritual I’ve maintained even through the chaos my life has become.

Mel, the owner, spots me and waves. “Mirabel! Long time no see. The usual?”

I nod, sliding into my favorite corner table. From here, I can see the entire café and the street outside—a habit I developed before moving into Arkady’s world. The weight of my phone in my pocket reminds me of his parting words last night: “Check in every two hours. No exceptions.”

In minutes, Mel places a steaming mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll the size of my face in front of me.

“You look tired,” she says, tucking a strand of gray-streaked hair behind her ear.

“Working too much,” I admit. It’s the simplest truth I can offer. I can hardly tell her that I work for—and am sleeping with—one of the most dangerous men in the city.

Mel squeezes my shoulder and moves to serve another customer, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I pick at the cinnamon roll, my appetite not what it usually is. For weeks now, my life has been divided into compartments: Arkady, Dad, the job. I’ve managed to keep them separate, but the walls are thinning.

The coffee smells incredible, but when I take a sip, my stomach turns unexpectedly. I set the mug down, waiting for the sensation to pass. Strange. I never turn down coffee.

I finish half the roll, leave cash on the table, and head out to take the route to Dad’s neighborhood.

What should I tell him about my new boss?

Nothing.

My body responds to thoughts of Arkady with embarrassing predictability—heat pooling low in my belly, my breath catching as I remember how his hands felt on my skin. The dangerous contradiction of him: violence and tenderness, control and vulnerability. I’m falling for a monster with broken pieces that match my own.

I force myself to stop thinking about him, focusing instead on the lies I’ll tell my father. The weight of deception sits heavy in my stomach—or is it something else? The queasiness from earlier returns, and I shift in my seat, breathing slowly until it passes.

By the time I reach Dad’s neighborhood, my stomach has settled, but my conscience hasn’t.

Dad’s home looks smaller each time I visit. The blue paint is peeling around the windows, and the front step has a crack I don’t remember from last time. But the knocker gleams, polished to perfection—Dad’s pride showing in small ways.

He opens the door before I knock. “There she is,” he says, arms already open.

I fall into his embrace, the familiar scent of his aftershave making my throat tight. When I pull back, I notice how his shirt hangs loose on his frame, how the hollows beneath his cheekbones have deepened.

“You’ve lost weight,” I say, immediately regretting it.

“And you look as beautiful as ever.” He smiles, dodging the observation as he ushers me inside. “Come on, I’ve made tea.”

I follow him in. The living room is exactly as it’s always been—worn furniture, bookshelves packed to bursting, family photos covering the walls. I wander to the mantle while Dad fusses in the kitchen. The silver frame holds our last complete family photo—Mom, Dad, me at sixteen, laughing with Debra about something just before the camera clicked. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath.

Dad returns with a tray, the teapot missing its lid. I guess it still does the job, though.

“How are you feeling?” I ask as he pours. “Really.”

He sighs, the sound weary but not defeated. “The treatments are working, Mira. Dr. Klein says my numbers are improving.”

I study his face for signs of deception, but his eyes meet mine steadily. “You promise?”

“Cross my heart,” he says, making the childish gesture that always made me laugh as a kid. “The meds make me tired, and my appetite isn’t great, but I’m following the protocol.” His hand covers mine, warm and reassuring. “You don’t need to worry so much.”

“It’s my job to worry,” I counter, squeezing his fingers. His skin feels paper-thin over bone.

“No, your job is whatever it is you’re doing that pays for all this.” His gaze sharpens. “Which you still haven’t fully explained.”