Page 13 of Charmingly Obsessed
He catches me easily, pulling me back against him, his palm cradling my face, his lips finding the top of my head. Each time I try to squirm away, to put space between my righteous anger and his infuriating charm, he just pulls me closer.
“A completely stupid joke,” I manage, my voice stern, though it’s cracking around the edges.
“Yeah,” he grimaces, nuzzling my temple. “Really overplayed that one. My brain’s not working yet. I was just trying to lighten the mood.”
I sigh, defeated by his relentless proximity.
He starts the Spectre, the electric engine purring to life silently.
I’m used to his careful precision behind the wheel, but I never realized before how intensely he focuses on the road, a stark contrast to the barely leashed chaos he usually radiates. At red lights, though, that focus shifts.
He leans in for quick, fleeting, hungry kisses, each one a jolt of heat against my lips, a reminder of the inferno still smoldering between us. Each time, my hand instinctively finds the sleeve of his blazer, gripping it, searching for balance in the sudden, dizzying onslaught of sensation.
We pull up near the desolate, forgotten edge of Ilyichevsky Park. This side is a wasteland of overgrown weeds, scattered trash, and cracked concrete. The clearing ahead is half-barren, half-poured with rough cement, suspiciously clean. A gangster’s clubhouse, no doubt.
Several sleek, black sedans are already parked near the far entrance to the clearing, their tinted windows reflecting the grey morning sky.
“Don’t stress,” he says, his hand brushing my shoulder, a fleeting touch that lingers like a brand.
He looks directly at me, his eyes serious now, all traces of teasing gone.
“Stay in the car. It’s fine. But if you feel you need to come out…
that’s fine too. Everything was settled yesterday.
Kulak is just here as a formal guarantor. A familiar face for them.”
“Mykola,” I say, my voice firm, trying to project a confidence I don’t feel. “Please. Be careful.”
“Deal,” he murmurs, his gaze intense, and for a crazy second, it feels like we’re sealing a pact about something far more significant than a meeting with thugs.
He gets out, crossing the blighted clearing with that same unhurried, casual, impossibly confident stride he always has. As if he’s strolling into a boardroom, not a rendezvous with criminals.
Three more black cars roll silently into the clearing, boxing in the Spectre. Their doors open, and men emerge, surrounding Frez, their faces hard, their postures predatory.
And then… oh my God.
A mountain of a man detaches himself from the group, moving with an eerie, unsettling animalistic grace. He’s huge, shoulders like boulders, neck like a tree trunk. That has to be Wasyl Kulak.
The group converges at the far end of the clearing. All I can see are their backs, the napes of their necks. A knot of dread tightens in my stomach. Does Spectre stock binoculars as an optional extra? Probably not.
I wipe a sweaty palm on my jeans, my heart hammering. Just as I’m debating the wisdom of actually staying put, Kulak – the human bulldozer – peels away from the huddle and starts heading directly towards the Spectre.
He’s coming for me. It’s obvious. He nods towards the hood of the car, a clear, silent summons for me to get out.
As I close the car’s door behind me, a strange sensory distortion takes over. Sounds stretch, becoming slow, syrupy, then snap back with jarring sharpness. The air feels thick, charged.
Frez is instantly at my side as I approach the group, positioning himself slightly in front of me, his body a solid, protective shield along my entire right side.
I’m still clutching the ridiculous pink tulip, a splash of incongruous color against the grim backdrop. I feel stiff, stupid, exposed.
A scruffy-haired man in a too-bright red jacket studies me from the side, his gaze sharp, assessing. His forehead slopes, his lips are comically thin. This must be Papa. He shifts his weight, one knee bent outwards, projecting an air of bored thuggery.
“So,” he says, his voice raspy. “You’re in the loop? Everything’s settled? Bilova, is it?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to match his cool tone. “Everything is agreed.”
“No need for a passport check, then?” Kulak rumbles, a dangerous glint in his small eyes. Clearly, he thinks he’s hilarious.
“We spent all night forging it,” Frez deadpans, his voice utterly flat. Not a flicker of amusement.
“Alright, alright,” Papa says quickly, holding up a placating hand. “Everything’s clear, then. Good.”
“We’ll call San Sergiyovich tonight,” Kulak nods towards Papa. “Telegram. No point dragging him all the way from the south just for a chat in the woods.”
“We’ll call, we’ll call,” Papa echoes.
“Forget the apartment’s address,” Frez tosses over his shoulder as he starts to turn me away, his hand a firm pressure on my lower back. “And tell your Golden Trio to do the same.”
Kulak claps his massive hands together once, the sound sharp, final. “Well then, girls,” he says, his gaze lingering on me for a beat too long. “Wishing you both health and happiness. And a fruitful… partnership.”
“This is a pretty good deal, all things considered,” Papa laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “We never meant to screw anyone over. Just business.”
“Sure, sure,” Frez says, his voice dripping ice. “Let’s move.”
“You were supposed to be the one , huh?” Papa calls after me, his voice carrying across the clearing.
I turn, faster than Frez, faster than his men. I just need to see him. To remember this face. He won’t hurt me now. Not with Frez here. Papa is good at reading eyes. He knows.
“What did you say?” Frez is instantly between us, pushing me protectively behind him, angling his body. “You talk to me. Not her.” His voice is dangerously soft again.
I still don’t understand why he’s reacting so violently to that. It’s just words.
“Real question is, why now?” Kulak mutters, pulling out his phone, already looking bored.
“Just thinking aloud,” Papa shrugs, a nasty smirk playing on his thin lips. “You were supposed to be the first one, Diana. Instead of your sister. Anya. The old man… remembers how it was supposed to be.”
“Yes,” I say, my voice clear, ringing out in the sudden tense silence. A few of the surrounding thugs turn their heads, craning their necks to get a better look at me. “Yes. It was supposed to be me.”
“Your ‘just’ doesn’t interest anyone here,” Frez warns, his tone glacial, his hand blindly reaching back for mine.
“Well, you see,” Papa continues, ignoring Frez, his eyes fixed on me, “Diana immediately—”
“What. Did. You. Say?” Frez cuts him off, enunciating each syllable with chilling precision.
He takes a step forward, his body radiating such a lethal intensity that I don’t manage to grip his hand tighter. Because something about him now… it’s terrifying. Like a thousand volts of pure, unadulterated rage have been channeled directly into him.
He and Kulak exchange a look. Quick. Barely perceptible. A nod.
And then, by the time Kulak is suddenly, inexplicably beside me, Frez has crossed the space separating him from Papa. He’s surrounded by Papa’s men, but he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t slow.
And with all his strength… he smashes his head directly into Papa’s face.