Page 20 of Charmingly Obsessed

T hree Years Later

I step out of Serafima Pylypivna’s guest bathroom, a couple of heavy-duty painkillers clutched in my hand for Frez, just as he exits the spare bedroom she’s temporarily assigned him.

We nearly collide in the dim, narrow hallway, a clumsy, awkward shuffle like two teenagers fumbling in the dark. His fault, mostly. He’s too big for these old-world proportions.

Judging by the thunderclouds gathering in his bruised, still-swollen face, his hushed, intense phone conversation with the mysterious “Larrington” didn’t end with rainbows and unicorns.

He’s deep in thought, brow furrowed, radiating a dangerous, coiled energy that makes the air around him crackle. The raw, animalistic violence from the park clearing still clings to him, a faint metallic tang of blood mixed with the expensive, familiar scent of his skin.

“Let’s get some tea,” he says. “Or… whatever you’re having.”

Serafima Pylypivna, a magnificent whirlwind in a paisley silk robe that looks like it was liberated from a maharaja’s closet, is already in her element in the kitchen.

She’s humming an obscure Ukrainian folk tune and vigorously chopping ingredients for an Olivie salad – chicken breast, pickles, potatoes, peas – with a speed and precision that would make a Michelin-starred chef weep.

The air is thick with the scent of dill.

Frez, looking ridiculously out of place yet somehow perfectly at home, squeezes past the overflowing sink and leans casually against the ancient, temperamental gas stove, watching her with an unreadable expression.

I bypass the tea, opting for cocoa for him – something warm, sweet, comforting. A peace offering. Or maybe just an excuse to fuss, to avoid meeting his intense gaze for a few more precious seconds.

With no other option, I take the only available seat at the small, cluttered kitchen table. Serafima, thankfully, has her back to Frez, her focus entirely on her salad artistry.

“Diana won’t have much free time now, of course,” Serafima announces to the room at large, her voice booming slightly. “Now that I’m finally taking her properly in hand. Structuring her days. Imposing discipline.”

“Really?” Frez’s eyes, when they meet mine over the rim of the elephant-shaped mug I hand him, glint with a familiar, dangerous amusement.

But he’s watching me from beneath heavily lowered lids, his head tilted slightly, an almost predatory stillness about him.

“Then she’s in very capable hands, indeed. ”

“Without a single doubt,” Serafima Pylypivna sniffs, adjusting her enormous, tortoiseshell-framed glasses. “Which is why it is absolutely imperative that we find her a suitable lover. Immediately.”

My gaze plummets to the chipped Formica tabletop. There is no force on this earth, or any other, that could make me look up and witness Mykola Frez’s reaction to that particular pronouncement.

Serafima, however, has no such compunctions.

She turns, her formidable gaze fixing on him.

“Why so pale, my dear knight errant? Don’t you worry your handsome, battered head.

Your candidacy,” she waves a dismissive hand, nearly impaling a rogue pickle with her chopping knife, “is not even on the table. We require a motivated fighter. A man of… stamina. And you, my boy,” she peers at him over her glasses, “are clearly far too busy with your numbers and your… brooding.”

I didn’t realize I was a long-lost blood relative of Cipollino, the Little Onion Boy, but my face is flaming so intensely it’s a miracle the fire alarms haven’t gone off. At least Cipollino was an onion; it wasn’t quite so embarrassing for him to turn crimson.

I risk a tiny, sideways glance just in time to see Frez set his elephant mug down on a tea towel with a slightly unsteady hand, nearly missing.

A few drops of milky cocoa escape the ceramic trunk and splatter onto the faded floral pattern.

“What do you mean by that?” he blurts out, his voice unexpectedly blunt, all pretense of cool composure gone.

“Exactly what I said, young man,” Serafima declares, her chin lifting defiantly.

“We have a delicate rose here,” she gestures towards me with the knife, and I flinch, “a bloom that requires diligent watering and… persistent fertilization. And you,” she gives him a pointed look, “are clearly preoccupied with your spreadsheets and your corporate takeovers. Not nearly enough… hands-on attention.”

Frez and I exchange a swift, bewildered glance. Decoding Serafima-speak is an art form in itself.

Finally, Mykola clears his throat, his gaze still locked on mine, a strange, almost hungry intensity burning in his eyes. “I once planted a rose,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “At my grandfather’s dacha . A Vendela. Beautiful. Creamy white. It’s… it’s still there. Thriving.”

Serafima Pylypivna turns dramatically and lowers her pearl-inlaid glasses, scrutinizing him from head to toe as they gleam in the harsh light.

“Let me get a proper look at you, boy. Why haven’t I seen you at my club?

You have a private jet parked in some hangar, I presume?

Excuses like ‘Oh, I got stuck at some slacker tech summit in San Francisco’ will not suffice with me. ”

“I was at the club,” Frez says, and he almost sounds… defensive. “The very first one, in fact. I’m the founder of Literary Miracle, in case that… rings any bells?”

She merely snorts and resumes her aggressive dicing of chicken fillets.

“As for you, my dear girl,” she turns her sharp, intelligent, dark blue eyes on me, their depths glimmering with a terrifyingly familiar mischief, “you could do with a firm hand dragging your pert little nose across a pillow. Repeatedly. And for an extended duration. And, you know,” she adds thoughtfully, “bending over at the waist does wonders for one’s cerebral circulation. ”

Mykola Frez makes a sound like he’s choking on his own tongue. Or maybe his ceramic elephant.

I, meanwhile, resolutely snatch the grocery list from the woven basket on the counter, pretending to study it with intense focus. Ignoring provocation is key with Serafima.

She’s clearly not serious. Probably. And if I react, if I show even a flicker of embarrassment or discomfort, she will never, ever let it go.

Easier said than done when you are , in fact, Cipollino’s long-lost, perpetually blushing sister.

“I’m going to the store,” I announce. I scan the list. “Any… requests?”

“Fireworks, please, my darling,” Serafima Pylypivna says, giving me a look that’s both a warning and a challenge. “And perhaps some edible body paint. For… artistic endeavors.”

She and I are, apparently, planning to celebrate New Year’s Eve in a few days. According to Serafima, she marks the end of the old year and the beginning of the new at the conclusion of every single month.

I wouldn’t entertain such glorious madness with anyone else on the planet. But from the moment she swept me into her eccentric orbit, I’ve been all in.

And now, here I am, about to venture out at the end of October to purchase an outrageously expensive fillet of wild-caught salmon for our… monthly New Year’s feast.

“I’ll help with the shopping,” Frez says, his voice surprisingly smooth, recovering his composure with alarming speed.

He pushes himself away from the stove, all gallant charm now. He steps aside, gesturing with a magnanimous sweep of his hand for me to precede him out the door.

In the dim, narrow hallway, as I reach for my coat on the antique hall tree, he moves. Fast.

One second he’s behind me, the next he’s pressed against my back, caging me between his hard body and the unyielding wood of the door.

His lips brush against my cheek, hot and seeking, so spontaneously, so unexpectedly, that I don’t even have time to flinch before I register the unmistakable, insistent pressure of his arousal against my backside. Hard. Hot. Undeniable.

“We’ll talk later,” he murmurs, his breath a warm caress against my ear, his voice a low, possessive rumble that sends shivers chasing down my spine. “About everything. And then… we’ll do a lot more than talk.”

At the grocery store, a strange sense of resignation settles over me.

We’re going back to his place after this. It’s inevitable. An unspoken agreement hangs in the air between us, thick and charged. And I need to act like a goddamn adult about it. No more running. No more hiding. Maybe a drink would help? A very, very large drink. Or three.

“My competitors ,” he murmurs, his voice smooth as silk, his lips brushing against my hair as we stand in the produce aisle, “are breathing down my neck constantly. Relentless. I’m afraid I’m not quite ready to make such…

radical decisions about my hairstyle just yet, Diana.

Though for you… I might consider a mohawk. ”

I blink.

Turns out I’ve been staring, unseeing, at a pile of aggressively spiky pineapples for the past five minutes, lost in a haze of anxiety and illicit desire. I can’t help but smile.

Back at the apartment the tension ratchets up another ten notches. I quickly shut his opulent bedroom door behind me, needing a moment, a sliver of privacy to collect my scattered thoughts.

And to deal with my tights. First of all, they’re not new.

They have a tiny, almost invisible run near the ankle.

Second, do normal people actually plan for sex with this much advance notice?

And then still have to wrestle with restrictive undergarments when the moment finally arrives?

It’s awful. I already feel ridiculous enough, like an awkward teenager on her first date.

These twisted, constricting strands of nylon are just making it worse.

I don’t own stockings. Too… overtly sensual.

So, I’ll go bare-legged. Besides, a little exposure to the elements is good for the immune system. Or so I tell myself.

In the car, we try to talk about when I’ll officially start sorting through his acquisitions, turning his hoard into a coherent collection.

The conversation is stilted. Mykola speaks oddly—his words are too careful, too measured, like a man navigating a minefield. It makes me feel awkward, too.

Am I just… sitting here, waiting for him to cut me a check in the end of the month? For services rendered? Or services… anticipated?

His apartment is warm. Inviting. Unexpectedly so.

It’s not just a space; it’s a home. The eclectic decor is deeply personal. A massive, colorful canvas and bright ceramic pots contrast with the brooding simplicity of dark wood, worn leather, and overflowing bookshelves.

His gaze, hot and possessive, lands on my bare feet.

So far, I’ve ditched the tights, smoothed down my slightly rumpled blouse, and taken a few deep, fortifying breaths. It hasn’t helped. My heart is still trying to escape my ribcage.

“Come in,” he says, his voice rough, husky. He motions towards the kitchen, a vast, open-plan space dominated by a monolithic dark stone island.

I follow him, drawn by that same invisible tether.

But it takes me a moment to realize… he hasn’t turned around. He’s walking backward. Slowly. His eyes locked on mine.

A faint, predatory smile playing on his lips.

Like he’s luring me into his den. And I’m walking willingly into the trap.