Page 12 of Charmingly Obsessed

H e leaves late, once the city outside my kitchen window is lit up for the night. Even after he’s gone, the apartment still hums with him: his scent, his heat, his raw energy.

We kissed in the stairwell, a frantic, breathless collision of mouths and searching hands, because the moment he stepped out my door, he hauled me with him, unwilling to break contact.

I slam the door shut the instant he’s gone, leaning back against it, my heart still jackhammering against my ribs. Because I know if I watch him walk down those stairs, if he looks back just once with those turbulent blue eyes… I might do something stupid. Like beg him to stay.

We agreed he’d pick me up tomorrow. The meeting. The thugs. The transfer of my life into their grubby hands. But I’ll wait in the car.

That was the concession Frez made after a tense, rapid-fire phone call with someone named Kulak – a name that dripped with underworld authority, a man Frez is clearly far closer to than anyone in the polished corporate world would ever suspect.

After that call, Frez transformed into a focused, almost unnervingly stable whirlwind, just stating it was “no big deal” if I remained in his car. The guarantor of tomorrow’s deal would be Kulak, the notorious pakhan of Kyiv’s bratva, known as a high-flying vulture in the criminal swamp.

I don’t have the mental bandwidth to dissect the implications.

The fact that Frez is planning to use his own money to settle Anya’s debt makes my stomach churn.

The fact that he’s wading deeper into this cesspool, even though he’s unknowingly been connected to its periphery through my family for years, terrifies me.

Kozar. Malasenco. Names with the weight of tombstones.

Doesn’t matter. The plan remains. Tomorrow, after this… transaction… I move in with Serafima Pylypivna. First thing, six AM. Escape. Disappear.

Right now, I just need to sleep. To silence the ghosts of the past. And the far more potent, far more dangerous ghosts of Mykola Frez’s kisses.

In the morning, the moving truck I’d optimistically booked is a no-show.

Of course, I never confirmed the reservation yesterday, what with being… otherwise occupied. Now I’m probably on the hook for a hefty cancellation fee for ignoring all their calls.

I have a perfect, rage-fueled excuse I can’t possibly give them: You don’t understand! I was being ravished on my kitchen table by a devastatingly handsome, slightly unhinged billionaire! Priorities!

Serafima Pylypivna’s apartment is a surprise.

Not far from the city center, nestled in a Stalin-era behemoth that looks deceptively ordinary from the outside.

Inside, it’s a testament to a bygone era of grandeur – high ceilings, sprawling rooms, the faint scent of old books and beeswax.

Now home to aging Soviet intellectuals, the building is slowly succumbing to elegant decay, but its bones are magnificent.

And Serafima Pylypivna herself? She’s a legend.

The formidable elderly woman who practically strong-armed me into accepting her offer of a room is the one and only mastermind behind the ridiculously exclusive Businessmen’s Book Club “Literary Miracle.”

How she lures these high-powered, schedule-packed alpha males into discussing books is a mystery to most. Unless you’ve witnessed her in action. She’s less a literary critic and more a charming, terrifyingly insightful inquisitor.

The delicious irony? Mykola Frez, Mr. Cutthroat Finance himself, is the founder of “Literary Miracle,” the book club for people who usually only read quarterly reports and stock market analyses. Small world. Or maybe just a world that orbits, inevitably, around men like him.

I met Serafima by chance, eating my solitary lunch on a park bench near the office, nursing a cup of ryazhenka and my bruised heart. Frez hadn’t been to the office in days. Weeks. It was after that day in the kitchen. I was convinced he was avoiding me.

First, I saw the flamboyant edge of a silk scarf – shocking pink and regal lilac.

Then, the glint of oversized, pearl-encrusted glasses that would dwarf a normal human head. Serafima Pylypivna was, and is, impossibly, gloriously tall.

“I’m not crying,” I’d muttered, defensive and cold, ignoring the scarf she held out to me – a silent offer to dry my tears.

“Then why are your eyes leaking, my dear?” Her commanding voice boomed.

She’d sat beside me with an exasperated sigh, and from that moment, a strange, unlikely friendship blossomed. She teased me relentlessly; I tried, mostly unsuccessfully, not to laugh. I became her favorite sparring partner, her entertainment. Everyone adored her. Or feared her. Often both.

“Clearly,” she’d announced loftily that first day, her gaze sweeping over me, “you were a dragon in a past life. And now? A golden rose, tragically trapped in a glass pot.”

This morning, she greets me at her apartment door looking like a chic, eccentric fortune teller: a vibrant Romani shawl draped over her shoulders, neon-pink fingerless gloves, and a pair of well-loved, shaggy Canadian Uggs.

Her ancient dachshund, Aza, wags her stump of a tail enthusiastically at my arrival, before promptly returning to glare with undisguised suspicion at Serafima’s boots.

“Good heavens, child, where are your things?” Serafima exclaims, hands on her hips. “Don’t you dare prevaricate. We agreed. You’re staying. For at least a year. I spent two weeks preparing that room! Aza required veterinary attention from the sheer volume of vacuuming!”

I bite back a smile. I know for a fact she hired a team of professional cleaners.

Frez arrives early. Of course, he does.

My heart doesn’t just leap; it sprouts wings and attempts a triple axel. I practically fly down the grand, slightly crumbling marble staircase, drawn by an invisible, irresistible force.

He’s leaning against his sleek, silent Spectre, a stark slash of modern technology against the building’s faded grandeur. His expression is… unreadable. More so than ever. Guarded. Remote.

For a terrifying, stomach-dropping second, I freeze. Did he change his mind? Regret last night?

Then the shadows in his eyes clear, replaced by something… steady. Resigned. He pushes away from the car, stepping towards me. Thank God. I wouldn’t have dared to move.

The moment he’s close enough for me to smell the faint, intoxicating scent of his skin, that unique Frez blend of expensive cologne and raw male energy, a wave of fear, sharp and sudden, crashes over me.

It’s not fear of him. It’s fear of… this.

This overwhelming, terrifying connection.

Like a decision has been made, irrevocably, for both of us.

Like we’re caught in a current too strong to fight.

Like we will never not be tangled together, no matter how many miles or continents or lifetimes might try to separate us.

Never. The word echoes in my head. A promise. A threat.

“You’re really going to live here?” he asks, his voice strange, his gaze sweeping over the imposing but undeniably aged facade of Serafima’s building.

Is that… disapproval? Disdain? “What’s wrong with it?” I ask, a defensive edge creeping into my tone. “People live in normal apartments, Mykola. My old khrushchyovka was ten times worse than this.” I didn’t expect architectural snobbery from him, of all people.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, dismissing the topic, dismissing my defensiveness. He leans in, fast, unexpected. And kisses me.

Hard. Deep. Possessive.

And then it’s not just a kiss. He groans, a low, guttural sound, and his arms snake around my waist, lifting me clean off my feet.

I gasp, my arms instinctively locking around his strong neck, my body trembling, boneless against his. He’s making up for lost time. Eight long, torturous hours since his mouth was last on mine. Eight hours too many.

“We—we have to go,” I stammer, trying to inject some sanity into the intoxicating madness, trying to pull our runaway shuttle back to earth. “The meeting…”

“We don’t.” He nuzzles my ear, his lips pressing deep, sending shivers down my spine. “We have a whole hour. Unless… you’d rather continue this in the car? More private. Let’s go.”

He turns towards the Spectre, one arm still locked around my waist, the other reaching for the passenger door handle.

And then he stumbles.

Just a slight hesitation, a momentary loss of balance. But it’s there.

He forces a quick, tight smile. And then, his hand, the one not holding me, presses weakly against his left side, just under his ribs.

I swear, my heart stops.

Fear drains the color from my vision. Everything blurs, dulls to shades of gray. Only the deep, turbulent blue of his eyes remains vivid, burning into me.

“Mykola!” I gasp, my voice sharp with terror. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Seems like… nothing,” he says, his voice strained, though his face remains unnervingly calm. His hand continues to press against his side. “Just… something feels off.” He meets my panicked gaze. “Help me.”

My hands fly to his, resisting the urge to probe, to demand answers, to fix it now. “Where?” I ask, my voice sharp, clipped. “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” he says, a strained, unconvincing smile playing on his lips. “But… especially here. Feels like… like something cracked.”

My fingers tremble as I let them drift higher, under his ribs, then cautiously, fearfully, slip beneath the fine fabric of his blue blazer. Something is definitely wrong. Something smooth. Raised. Oh God…

No. My blood runs cold. I’m going to kill him for this!

I pull out a magnificent, half-opened pink tulip. Its petals are slightly crushed.

Frez gives me a slow, deliberate, devastatingly charming smile. Then he leans in and presses his lips to mine, warm, lingering, tasting of relief and mischief.

On instinct, I shove him away. Hard.

“You… idiot!” I practically shriek, my voice trembling with a volatile mix of terror, relief, and white-hot fury. “You absolute, certifiable, king of all idiots! I nearly— I thought—”