Page 9 of Charmingly Obsessed

T he damp chill hits me first, carrying the scent of rain and something else…

Then the image floods my mind – the heavy curtain billowing, the antique wardrobe, the rope… Anya.

“I’ll close the window,” Frez says casually from inside the dim room, his back to the wardrobe. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what horror hangs just feet away, swaying gently in the draft he just commented on. He’s about to turn around.

He cannot see that.

Adrenaline dumps into my system. I launch myself forward, stumbling past the threshold into the murky light, propelled by pure terror. My hands scramble for the massive wardrobe, needing to block his view, needing to hide…

Frez turns. His eyes follow my frantic movement. He looks towards the top of the wardrobe, towards the thick metal hook where Anya…

Where…

Nothing.

There’s nothing there. Just the hook. Empty. Stark against the dark wood.

The rope is gone.

“No! W-what? Where is it? It’s gone!” My mind races, frantic. Did I imagine it? No. It was there. I saw it.

I scramble onto the rickety wooden stool beside the wardrobe, hands scrabbling blindly at the top edge, patting the smooth, cold metal hook. Nothing. It was here. Swaying. When they carried her out in that bag… the rope was still here.

“Diana? What’s wrong? What are you looking for?” Frez’s voice sounds distant, confused.

My memory frays, unravels. Did I hallucinate it? Am I losing my mind? The grief, the stress, the lack of sleep…

“She was here!” I scream, the sound tearing through my raw throat, echoing in the suddenly too-small room. “Hanging! Right here! And now she’s not!”

The room spins. Nausea claws its way up my throat. Heat surges through me, prickling under my skin. I sway on the stool, the world tilting violently.

“…Diana, don’t move, please, look at me… stay still!”

Frez’s face swims into view, then recedes. Panic flares in his eyes, replaced by sharp focus. Is he real? Is any of this real? He’s talking loudly, urgently, right in my face, but the words don’t penetrate the roaring in my ears.

My hands reach out blindly, clutching the lapels of his expensive blazer. Solid. Real. Something to anchor me.

I can feel the frantic thud of his heart beneath the fabric, warm and terrified. I have to make him understand. It’s my fault. I never explain things right. Anya needed help, and I failed her.

“Sh-she was h-hang-ing,” I force the syllables out, each one a jagged piece of glass in my throat. He doesn’t understand. Nobody understands.

“…look at me, stay still, I’ve got you. God, please, sonechko , please don’t cry…”

Cry? Sonechko ? He’s calling me sunshine while I’m shattering into a million pieces? I can’t cry. Haven’t cried properly in years. Not since…

But as strong arms scoop me off the stool, lifting me effortlessly against a hard chest, my hand brushes against my own face. Wet. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable.

He carries me out of the bedroom, his strides long and urgent. My mind is stuck, looping on the image of the rope, the missing rope. Where did it go? Why isn’t it there?

He kicks open the bathroom door, flicks on the harsh overhead light. The small, tiled space feels clinical, cold. I cling to his jacket like a drowning woman, the sturdy fabric my only lifeline.

He sets me down abruptly in the bathtub, porcelain cold against my trembling legs.

I make a sharp, protesting noise, but he cups my face gently, urgently, between his large hands. His thumbs stroke my tear-soaked cheeks. He whispers something against my lips – reassurance, a command, I don’t know – and somehow, I nod.

Then the icy water hits.

A gasp rips from my lungs, the shock stealing my breath. I clamp my mouth shut, biting down hard on my own fingers to stop from screaming again.

And then he’s climbing into the tub with me. Fully clothed. His expensive blazer, his jeans, everything. He pulls me against his solid frame, wrapping his arms around me, holding me tight as the freezing spray plasters my clothes to my skin, plasters his clothes to his skin.

The water keeps pouring, relentless, shockingly cold. It’s everywhere. Except for one tiny point of warmth. Right on my temple. Where Mykola Frez’s lips are pressed, firm and steady, against my skin.

He carefully shields my face against his chest, tucking my head under his chin. I burrow closer instinctively, seeking warmth, seeking solace in the solid wall of him. The scent of him – expensive cologne, rainwater, and something uniquely, fundamentally Mykola – surrounds me.

“Just a little longer,” he breathes into my wet hair. “Then I’ll make it warm. Diana… breathe with me.”

His palms gently lift my face. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, gripping his lapels tighter. I can’t look at him. Not now. Seeing the chaotic blue universes swirling in his eyes, seeing pity or confusion or worse… it would break me completely.

The rope. The authorities must have taken it. Or the cleanup crew. It’s logical. Simple. I just… panicked. Got confused. Made a scene. Humiliated myself in front of him.

Under the relentless icy downpour, the raw edges of hysteria begin to smooth, replaced by a vast, hollow apathy. Acceptance. Cold and unwelcome, but maybe necessary.

“You can tell me,” Mykola whispers, his breath warm against my lips. “Anything. Everything. It’s just us here.”

I nod against his chest, my cheek scraping against the wet fabric of his shirt. My hands slowly unclench from his lapels, smoothing the wrinkled material instead. He captures my hands in his, his grip surprisingly gentle, squeezing lightly.

“You need to let it out. And believe me, there’s no better shoulder in the entire goddamn universe to cry on than mine. Pretty sure Lucifer himself had a good sob session on it once.”

A watery, broken laugh escapes me. The absurdity, the tenderness… it cracks something inside. “I haven’t cried. Not really. In a long time.”

He nudges my cheek gently with his nose, a surprisingly intimate gesture, coaxing me to look up.

I resist for a moment, then finally meet his gaze. He looks… wrecked. Upset. The sharp, refined angles of his face seem blurred, softened by concern. There’s no pity, just… raw, unguarded empathy.

“Tonight,” he whispers, his expression deadly serious, “we are going to cry. That’s an executive decision. For as long as it takes.”

“It’s pointless,” I whisper back, shaking my head slightly. “Crying doesn’t fix anything.” But a tiny, genuine smile touches my lips as his nose nudges me again, insistent. It’s a very nice nose. Surprisingly substantial up close.

The last wave of tears comes then, hot and thick, flowing freely now. He pulls my face back against his chest, one hand stroking my wet hair with surprising tenderness, the other reaching up to turn the faucet.

Warm water cascades down, replacing the icy shock. The sudden shift makes me shiver violently, the deep chill in my bones intensifying before the warmth begins to penetrate. Frez kisses my temple again, a fleeting pressure, and my eyes drift closed involuntarily.

He shrugs out of his soaked blazer, letting it drop with a heavy splash at the bottom of the tub.

Then he settles us both against the back of the tub, pulling the thin shower curtain closed with a decisive tug, cocooning us in the small, steamy space.

As if shielding us from prying eyes that don’t exist.

The waves of warmth feel impossibly good. Weakness overcomes me, and I let my head rest against his solid shoulder. His arm tightens around me.

Through a hazy fog of exhaustion and emotion, I watch as he takes my hands again, turning them over, carefully stroking each finger, his touch gentle, almost reverent. He pointedly avoids lingering on the burn scar.

“I was a complete ass,” he murmurs quickly, his lips brushing against my hair. “Total idiot. All that stuff – the job, the offer… it can wait. None of it matters right now. None of it. We’ll get you dried off, warmed up. Drink some tea. You’ll see. I even know how to operate a kettle.”

“I want to work. Work helps. Distracts. But… I don’t want them to be able to find me. Ever.”

He inhales sharply through his teeth, a harsh, grating sound.

His hand tightens on mine, almost painfully, then instantly gentles. He shifts, pulling me slightly away so he can look into my eyes.

“You have to trust me, Diana. Let me handle this. Let me fix this. Or I won’t be able to…”

“Fix what?” I whisper, lost in the intensity of his gaze.

“Where do I even start?” he sighs, a hand coming up to push damp strands of hair from my forehead. “I… I need you to think well of me, Diana. Or at least… stop looking for the angle. Stop assuming the worst.”

“I do think well of you,” I manage, a nervous tremor in my voice. He doesn’t smile. He just watches me.

“Now’s not the time to get into it.” He squeezes my hand again, pulling me back against his side.

And maybe, just maybe, that make-believe fort from childhood – the one where you believed nothing bad could touch you – maybe it actually exists. And maybe, right now, I’m inside it. Huddled against the storm. With him.