Page 6 of Obsessed Mr. O’Brian

With my resolution pulled tight around me, I stalk toward the gorgeous, ethereal beauty and try not to drown in her clear, sky-blue orbs.

Chapter 3

Millie Grant

An odd mix of terror and delight wars within me as Artur O’Brian prowls straight toward me. My heart thrums harder against my sternum the closer he steps. Warmth pulses low in my belly even as fear curls around my stomach. Only the weight of his daughter in my arms keeps me grounded.

He stops and towers over me. I can’t move. The little girl’s contended sigh blows across the front of my throat, causing an avalanche of sensations through my nerves. Goosebumps pebble my skin.

“Oh my god, Millie, is this your new client?” I jump at Summer’s unexpected voice as she speaks from right beside me. Her shoulder brushes against mine as she leans to get a better look at the little girl’s face. “She’s absolutely adorable and has obviously already fallen in love with you.” I’ve known Summer for a little less than eight years—ever since she joined the self-defense class at Mr. Carter’s gym a few months after I did—and knew she was nearby since she was part of the bridal party, but the little girl’s arrival and her father’s overwhelming presence blinded me to the rest of the world. Summer continues as though oxygen is overrated. “As she should. Babies sure do know who to trust. When did you start—”

“Give me back my daughter,” Artur demands.

A solid mountain of ice encases my soul at the disdain in his deep, gravelly voice.

Summer’s attention snaps to him. She straightens and quirks a brow. I swallow and reflexively tighten my arms around the precious little treasure even though I know she isn’t mine to keep.

I didn’t expect to see her so soon after saying goodbye. My heart hasn’t had time to recover from our first meeting, so when I turned and saw her running toward me, I couldn’t stop myself. She was in my arms even as my foolish heart leaped knowing her father wouldn’t be far behind.

With emotions tightening my chest, I take a half step forward and try to hand Artur his daughter, but she tightens her grip on me. Her thumb smears wetness on my back as she grabs the strap of my dress.

I lose my breath as Artur’s long, thick fingers wrap around his daughter’s midsection, his knuckles sliding over my ribs and breast. She squeezes me tighter, pulling the front and back of my dress askew with both of her hands fisted around opposite straps. Her knees tighten around my waist to the point of pain.

Artur gives a gentle tug. I stumble forward and catch my balance only because of his hold on his girl. A blush creeps up my neck as his finger brushes over my nipple.

My hard nipple.

If it weren’t for my shock—my nipples have only ever reacted in a clinical sense to the cold and never because pure heat pumped through my veins—I’d die of mortification at the icy disgust in Artur’s intense amber eyes. This close, the golden flecks in his irises seem to shine with an otherworldly light.

“Sorry, Artur. She won’t let go,” I manage through the ball of emotions clogging my throat.

The bastard deepens his scowl and tugs again. I squeak and shuffle to keep my feet underneath me. His daughter clings to me like the sweetest little burr, her spikes digging deep into my heart and leaving the most bittersweet holes behind.

“Lola, come here,” he growls.

She presses her forehead so hard into the well of my shoulder my head throbs from the pressure. Worry sweeps down my spine.

“Don’t hurt yourself, lovie. Relax just a little. I’ve got you,” I murmur.

Despite the condescension in Artur’s golden orbs, I firm my expression, tighten my arms, and lift my chin. My insides quake—panic closes in at the confrontation—but I will always protect whatever children may appear in my life, even if our time together is brief.

When Artur’s grip shifts and my charge whimpers, I grit my teeth and firm my resolve.

“You’re hurting her. Let—”

Before I even finish my sentence, he jerks away and shoves a hand through his hair before crossing his arms over his chest. Not expecting the sudden movement, the uncertainty in his stance, or the horror in his eyes, I stand frozen in shock for a few lame seconds before relaxing my hold on his daughter.

She follows my lead, sensing the mood shift and, instead of trying to burrow under my skin, morphs her attention to enjoying our nearness.

I breathe in her scent—she no longer carries the sweet newness of an infant, but the smell of shampoo and baby powder ensures me she’s well cared for despite her crooked hair and messy face—and force my muscles to relax further.

With my heart in my throat, I turn my eyes to the grown-up version of the boy I once dreamed of spending forever with and soften my expression into what I hope is one of assurance. He’s too ruggedly handsome. Too big. Too real. Longing throbs through me with every beat of my pounding heart.

Summer’s disapproval seeps into my side. Sadness infects my heart. Even my friend can sense how wrong it is of me to covet someone else’s man and his baby.

Teetering on the edge of mania—with visions of me cackling, sprinting away, and escaping through the hatch behind the pulpit with Lola, because that’s what Artur called her, crowding my thoughts—I swallow, force the idea as far, as far away as possible, and nod to her father before dipping my head to rest my cheek on the top of her head.

“Did you give your Daddy a hug like I asked?” I murmur.