Page 31 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

Lola wriggles deeper into me. I wince and turn my attention to the items next to my hip. With a bit of coaxing, I convince Lola to scoot down my legs. She fixates on my braid, so I pull it over my shoulder for her to play with while I don the gloves, dispense her medicine, and deliver her food with a slow, measured depression of the syringe.

The moment I flush and close her port, she dives back against my front and closes her fist around my braid. I swallow the pain in my battered body, pull off my gloves, and hold her close.

Artur returns with two cups of coffee. He offers me one.

“Thank you, but I don’t drink coffee,” I admit.

Dismay sneaks into his expression, but he doesn’t give up.

“What do you usually drink in the morning?” he asks.

“Herbal tea. Very weak herbal tea.” At the disappointment in his eyes, I realize he didn’t request any be added to the room because I failed to disclose my preferences when he asked yesterday. Seeing my father again yesterday sent me into a terrible headspace and I hadn’t been able to respond to any questions not directly related to the present. The failure shining in Artur’s eyes pulls more words from my throat. “Or hot water.”

He takes the mug back to the kitchen, pours my coffee down the drain, and retrieves a fresh mug from the cabinet. After waiting on the kettle—which boils water in less than a minute—he places the steaming mug on the bedside table.

He startles me again by skirting around the foot of the bed and climbing on from the other side.

Obscene thoughts fill my mind as he crawls to the center of the mattress and takes over the mini throne he made for Lola. She reaches over and pats his arm without lifting her face from my bosom.

“You know, I’m starting to get jealous,” Artur grumbles.

A knot forms in my gut. I glance down at the top of Lola’s head and try to pry my arms away from her, but I can’t.

How do I assure him I can never take his place in his daughter’s heart? He has no reason to be jealous. Lola loves him. Their bond is irreplaceable.

“I’m sorry, Mr. O—”

“Artur,” he corrects.

I gnaw on the inside of my lip before awakening every stiff muscle in my upper half by shaking my head.

The setting, while not as intimate as last night, is still too precarious to let down my guard.

“No, sir. Mr. O’Brian, you have no reason to be jealous. She’s only in my lap because—”

“I’m not jealous of you, Millie. I’m jealous of Lola,” he says.

I blink in stunned disbelief.

Sure, he said some wild things last night and was sweeter than I thought possible while he treated my injuries, and I let it slide because the words were exactly what I wanted to hear, but we can’t be that intimate again. Ever.

He growls low in his throat and adjusts his sweatpants before pulling the top blanket over his lap and murmuring under his breath even though I’m right next to him and hear every word.

“This is fucking crazy. I’m jealous of my own daughter because she’s sitting in her nanny’s lap. When’s it my turn?”

I blink at him for a few moments as though he grew an extra head—which he might have given the size of his lap—before his meaning sinks in.

The ice on my back doesn’t sting nearly as much as his crass joke.

Even though I want him more than my next breath, the memory from when I woke with my client’s uncle groping me fills me with queasiness.

Thick fingertips press against the underside of my chin and guide my attention up to Artur’s eyes.

“I meant what I said last night, Millie,” he says.

I tilt my head back, escaping his finger, and turn my face away.

“Which words are you referring to? Committing murder for me, or I’m a possession to own?”