Page 10 of Charmingly Obsessed

T he warm water sluices over us, a stark contrast to the icy shock therapy moments before.

Mykola holds me securely against his side, a solid wall of warmth in the small, steamy enclosure of the tub.

He pulls away just enough to look into my face, his thumb gently stroking my cheekbone, wiping away residual moisture.

We talk. About trivial things, at first. Filling the loaded silence that hangs heavy between the lingering terror and the fragile truce.

He tells me he flew straight from Dubai, ditching a sovereign wealth fund meeting, just to intercept me at the office yesterday.

Just to stop me from leaving. The sheer focused intensity of it steals my breath.

“If I’d known those pastries were waiting, I would’ve commandeered a fighter jet to fly faster.”

A watery smile touches my lips. “They were average, really. My raisin muffins… those are the real showstoppers.”

“Nonsense.” He scoffs softly, tightening his arm around me. “I practically mainlined enough sugar back there to induce diabetic shock, and you call them ‘average.’ You wound me, Diana.”

The fragile normalcy shatters as the words tumble out before I can stop them. “My sister… she had a hard life. They forced her into addiction.”

His fingers, tracing patterns on my arm, still.

They’re surprisingly rough, calloused in places, a stark contrast to the unexpected tenderness of his touch now.

He hesitates, processing. “Addiction… it’s a beast,” he says finally, his voice quiet, serious.

“It wasn’t her fault, Diana. She wouldn’t have wanted to hurt you. ”

“You’re right,” I whisper, meeting his gaze, finding only somber understanding there. No judgment. Just… acceptance.

“She was older than you, right?”

I nod quickly against his shoulder. Here, cocooned in this strange, steamy fort, he presses soft, random kisses into my damp hair. Quick butterfly touches, then lingering pressure. I keep my eyes closed, absorbing the unexpected comfort, afraid to break the spell.

“She took care of you? And now I…” He stops himself, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He clears his throat.

Yes. Anya always took care of me. Loved me fiercely, protectively. And that love is why I can’t risk anything. Why I have to survive, disappear. Or everything she endured, everything she was, will be for nothing.

“My parents died in the mountains,” Mykola says suddenly, his voice flat, detached.

“Together?” I exhale, surprised by the abrupt shift, the offered vulnerability.

“Yes.” He nods. “Avalanche. Happened a long time ago. I was almost finished with school. Practically grown.”

“Finishing school isn’t grown,” I argue softly, instinctively pushing back against the minimization of his pain.

He nods again, evasively this time. Then a harsh, disbelieving laugh rips from his chest. It’s a dark, ugly sound.

“That’s a lie, of course.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead against the bridge of my nose, his eyes squeezed shut for a moment.

His confession comes out in a ragged whisper against my lips.

“Car crash. My mother… she was drinking. Heavily. She killed them both. My father… he adored her. Worshiped the ground she walked on, even when she was destroying herself. No surprise he went with her.” He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting mine, haunted. “I take after them both.”

The last sentence hangs there, heavy and chilling. I don’t know what to say. “You knew? Back then? About her drinking?”

“Yes.”

He leans in, pressing a quick, light kiss to my cheek, a fleeting moment of tenderness before the walls slam back into place.

He turns off the faucet, the sudden silence amplifying the drip of water from our clothes. He finds a towel – thick, fluffy, probably Anya’s best – and wraps it around my shoulders before reaching for one himself.

“I’ll find you something dry,” I mumble, starting to shiver as the air hits my wet skin. “Sorry, it’ll just be whatever I can find…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his voice serious, his gaze fixed on me as I fumble with the towel.

And then, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, he reaches down and pulls his soaked shirt off over his head.

Water sluices down tanned skin stretched taut over hard muscle. Broad shoulders, defined pecs, the lean lines of his waist… My breath catches. It’s too much. Too intimate. Too… male.

I bolt.

Scrambling out of the tub, dripping water everywhere, not even bothering to wring out my sodden trousers.

I flee the small, steamy bathroom and the sight of Mykola Frez, gloriously, devastatingly half-naked. This man has assistants to pick out gifts. This raw, vulnerable, dangerously physical version of him is someone entirely new. Someone my carefully constructed defenses have no protocol for.

By the time I emerge from my bedroom, wrapped in a thick robe, my hair turbaned in another towel, he’s already in the kitchen.

He’s put the kettle on. He’s found the remaining pastries and is eating one, leaning against the counter, chewing with an absentminded focus that’s somehow utterly captivating. The sheer casualness jars against the backdrop of high-stakes threats and emotional meltdowns.

The ripped pieces of his obscene offer card are still scattered on the countertop.

“I’m sorry. For accusing you. About the offer. That was… unwarranted.”

He turns, popping the last bite of pastry into his mouth.

He watches me as he chews, then swallows.

“You apologize a lot, sonechko ,” he remarks, pushing away from the counter to make tea for me, coffee for himself.

His movements are economical, precise. “And your defense mechanisms are Fort Knox level.” A faint smirk touches his lips.

“But that’s okay. Any defense can be cracked eventually.

I happen to enjoy a challenge,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

“You apologize a lot too!” The retort slips out, sharper than intended.

He pauses, coffee mug halfway to his lips, raising a surprised eyebrow.

“Oh?” A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face.

He sets the mugs down and deliberately sits at the small kitchen table, patting the chair beside him.

Far too close. “So, the Ice Queen does have a backbone under all that frost.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “No! It’s just… the better I get to know someone, the more… freely I speak.” And apparently, near-death experiences and shared showers accelerate that process.

He studies me for a long, unnerving moment, his expression unreadable. “That’s a good thing, Diana. And it’s smart to be wary. People usually give you a reason to be.”

“So, what’s your catch?” The question is out before I can censor it.

He leans back slightly, a glint of amusement – and something else, something darker – in his eyes.

“If I told you, you’d run screaming for the hills.

” He pauses, his gaze sweeping over me, lingering.

“And honestly? After four of your pastries, my sprint time might be slightly compromised. I might only be able to chase you for… fifty-nine seconds.” He squints theatrically.

“I’m a decent runner,” I say, trying to play along, keep it light, but my voice trembles slightly.

His gaze sharpens instantly, the playful facade dropping away.

The air crackles. He leans forward again, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur that sends shivers down my spine. “Is that right? Because that sounds dangerously like an invitation, Diana.”

My eyes dart down to my teacup, unable to hold his intense stare.

Then, from the corner of my eye, I see his hand slide across the table. Tanned, strong fingers lightly brush against mine, then deliberately, carefully, trace the lines of my knuckles. My breath hitches.

I don’t register the exact moment he leans closer, until his cheek brushes against mine, the faint stubble rasping against my skin. A low hum fills my ears, pure static electricity, anticipation coiling tight and hot in my belly.

His voice is a low crackle directly against my ear, intimate, possessive.

“Because I would catch you,” he whispers, his breath hot, sending sparks down my neck.

“Run you ragged. Make you gasp for air. Then I’d let you go…

just so I could chase you all over again.

Hunt you down. Until you were breathless, trembling, begging me to stop.

” His lips brush the sensitive shell of my ear.

“And I’d agree, but only on the condition that surrender means you belong entirely to the victor. To me.”

A sharp, shaky gasp escapes me. I try to disguise it as an exhale, but it’s useless.

His hand tightens around mine, warm, strong, claiming.

He pulls back just enough for our eyes to meet. His are dark, turbulent, pupils blown wide. “I’m going straight to hell for this, aren’t I?” His voice is unsteady, thick with something desperate.

And then his mouth crashes down on mine.

It’s not a gentle exploration. It’s combustion. Raw need meeting desperate hunger. He echoes the shaky sound I made, only his is deeper, rougher, a groan ripped from his chest as he claims my lips.

Somehow, I end up on his lap, pulled tight against his hard body, the worn kitchen chair groaning beneath our combined weight.

Our hands collide, fumbling, frantic in their need to touch, to hold on.

His intensity is a tidal wave, swamping my senses, obliterating thought.

I cling to his shoulders, searching for an anchor, terrified by the feeling of weightlessness, of spinning out of control, plummeting towards something unknown and dangerous.

He takes my mouth, steals my breath, devours my protests. Over and over. I don’t know when my fingers tangled in the damp strands of his hair at his nape. I don’t know when his lips left mine to trace frantic, fevered paths across my cheekbones, my jaw, my eyelids – mapping me, claiming me.

He deepens the kiss again, slow now, deliberate, drawing out the torture, the pleasure, until I’m trembling.

He pauses, his lips hovering millimeters from mine, his breath mingling with mine.

“You’re kissing me back,” he murmurs, the words rough, laced with wonder and disbelief. “You’re actually kissing me back, Diana.”

It’s an absurd observation. As if I have a choice. As if my body hasn’t been screaming for this since the moment he walked back into my life.

His hand slides from my waist, moving behind me, bracing himself against the edge of the kitchen table.

Every ounce of my self-control is focused on not letting my own hands wander below his collarbone, not exploring the hard, warm skin I glimpsed earlier. The thought terrifies me – the potential for losing myself completely, for ruining whatever fragile, dangerous thing this is.

Suddenly, his mouth is at my neck. Hot, open-mouthed kisses that feel like they’re branding me.

He nips, laves, sucks lightly at the sensitive skin just below my ear, sending jolts of pure electricity straight to my core.

He’s unleashed and chaotic, obliterating everything in his path.

My breath stutters, breaks, coming in short, sharp gasps.

Each inhale feels like fire searing its way through my lungs.

He chases those gasps, capturing them with his mouth, swallowing my sounds with a fierce determination that borders on desperation.

I whimper, blindly reaching for his hand, needing contact, needing grounding.

And then the world tilts again. One moment I’m on his lap, the next I’m being lifted, shifted, and then I’m sprawled on my back across the sturdy wooden kitchen table, the cool surface a shock against my robe-clad skin.

He follows me down, looming over me, caging me in with his strong arms braced on either side of my head.

I finally get a clear look at his face. And my heart twists with a painful, terrifying hope.

He doesn’t look like the controlled finance mogul.

He looks… undone. Every sharp, aristocratic feature is drawn taut, etched with need.

His eyes – those incredible blue eyes – are unfocused, dilated, like he’s drowning, lost in the same turbulent current that’s pulling me under.

He presses his forehead to mine, his breathing harsh, ragged.

“I can’t stop. When I see you… touch you… I just… can’t. I try, Diana. God, I try. But I can’t stop.”