Page 90 of Cruel Obsession

“You need more money?” He asks it casually, as if offering thousands is nothing. To him, it probably isn’t.

“No.”

“Okay. What’s the second one?”

I hesitate, my throat tightening around words I rarely speak aloud. The vulnerability of sharing this with him—with Arkady Laurov of all people—feels dangerous. Yet something about his stillness pulls the truth from me.

“Debra. My twin sister,” I say finally. “I’ve been having dreams about her more often lately.”

“Debra, huh?” A shadow crosses his face.

I nod silently, swallowing the tight knot that’s formed in my throat.

“Tell me.” His voice drops lower, rougher.

I take a deep breath, the familiar pain blooming fresh beneath my ribs. “She disappeared six years ago. From a class outing.” My voice catches. “We had a stupid fight aboutsomething insignificant. She went for a walk in the forest to be on her own and cool off.”

“Go on,” he says quietly, an edge to his voice I can’t decipher.

“I searched the forest until it got too dark to see. I didn’t find a sign of her. Except…” I pause.

“Except what?” he presses.

“There was this man—huge, his head covered. Something about him felt wrong.” The memory sits cold in my chest.

Another shadow crosses his face, this time more visible, but his body remains perfectly still. Too still.

“Did he see you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “It was like he was there and then gone. I almost thought I imagined it,” I say. “So I kept looking. But the teachers pulled us back, said we weren’t allowed out there at night. Told us the police would handle it.”

I pause, fighting against the pressure building behind my eyes.

“They didn’t. Debra never came back. She’s still on the missing persons list.” Tears begin to spill without permission, hot tracks down my cheeks. I hate crying in front of him, showing weakness to a man who seems built from steel and ice. “She was my soulmate. My other half. My identical twin. And I will never be able to forgive myself for having that stupid fight. It was all my fault she went into the forest.”

I wipe angrily at my face, embarrassment burning alongside grief. I shouldn’t have told him this. I don’t know why I got so emotional so suddenly. But when I look up, the change in his expression stuns me. His face has softened, the hardness in his eyes replaced by something I never expected to see—not pity, not exactly sympathy, but understanding. Recognition of a shared wound.

“Come here,” he says, his voice rough.

I freeze, uncertain what he wants. Then his hand reaches toward me—not demanding, but offering. Like for the first time, he’s reaching out rather than taking.

I stand unsteadily and take a careful step closer.

Once I’m within reach, he doesn’t hesitate. His arm circles my waist and pulls me onto his lap with frightening ease. I catch the heady scent of his cologne before his mouth claims mine and feel almost giddy for a moment.

The kiss is different from the last time; less frantic, more deliberate. His lips move against mine with purpose, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other splays possessively across my lower back. Heat floods through me, a shameful, unwanted response to a man I should keep at arm’s length.

His tongue slides against mine, demanding entrance I shouldn’t grant. My body betrays me, melting against him like I’m under some ancient spell I can’t break. My hands find his shoulders—solid muscle beneath expensive wool—as my head spins from his taste, from the intoxicating danger of being this close to a man who rules his world through fear.

I’ve heard the rumors among the staff. The calls he takes behind closed doors. The men who visit at odd hours, armed and watchful. The way his name is spoken in hushed tones even within these walls.

Yet here I am, responding to his touch like he could save me instead of destroy me.

When he pulls back, his eyes are darker, pupils dilated with desire. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I realize I’m trembling.

“You’re not responsible for what happened to your sister,” he says, voice like gravel. “You couldn’t have known.”

The words touch a wound I’ve kept open for years. I want to argue, to tell him he doesn’t understand the burden of survivalguilt, but something in his expression stops me. The pain in his eyes matches my own—raw and familiar.