Page 36 of Captured Obsession

Nikolai practically shot down everything I said in my emotional outburst. Then he accused me of having a pity party and dared to question whose voice it is that I’m listening to. But he could never understand what it's like living in the spotlight, and perhaps I envy him for that.

I pause at that thought. Do I not like being in the public eye anymore?

I never had much of a choice in the matter, but iteventually became everything to me. This whole being kidnapped thing has kept me isolated from the public and stolen my ability to scroll through my socials and engage with others. I can’t use it as a distraction. I’m now forced to face my own thoughts as everything comes to a screeching halt.

Maybe the things I thought I built my life on are no longer the things I want.

But finding out that Michael and his new fiancée are having a baby? That’s what kills me. Because it's the one thing I want most, and being unable to do it makes me feel defective. I hate that I feel that way. I hate that it's bubbling up in vicious ways. I despise that I'm so ashamed of the fact that I haven't even been able to open up to my best friends about it.

I exhale. Yes, perhaps it is a pity party for one, but someone as ruthless as Nikolai will never understand the nuances of craving a child. I find it ironic that I was always so scared of how my body would be perceived when it changed through pregnancy, that the moment I was told that I couldn’t conceive, it suddenly took away all that fear and doubt and highlighted to me that it was the one thing I truly wanted.

Nikolai returns to my side, then he takes one of the knives and flips it with ease and grace. It’s obvious he's used to handling them. Then he offers it to me, handle first.

“Aren’t you scared I'll use it against you?” I ask,looking down at the knife. This is ridiculous, yet my fingers itch to wrap around the handle of the blade.

“I'd be disappointed if you didn't try, but you know there will be consequences if you do,mishka.”

My spine stiffens at the way his tone seems to threaten and entice me at the same time.

I let out a sigh and then take the knife from his hand; the handle is cool in my palm. “I'm serious, though. You can't kill him, Nikolai. He's about to become a father.” The truth is, I want him to fucking hurt but not die. I just don't have enough spite in me to ever wish that on anyone.

“How very boring of you,” Nikolai says evenly, and I ignore his disapproval as he drops his cigarette to the ground and crushes it under his heel.

He sets the other knives in the grass next to us, then steps into my space, crowding me from behind. His callused hand slides down my forearm to wrap around my hand where it grips the knife.

The hair on my arms rises as he engulfs me in his warmth, smelling of crisp citrus with a woodsy undertone that I can’t decipher. His breath wafts against my ear, and a low hum begins to stir between my legs.

“You seem flustered,mishka,” he purrs, and I can sense the smile on his face.

“More like irritated,” I snap back.

A chilling chuckle vibrates against the nape of my neck. “That is a very good start. Knives are light and delicate. First, is mastering control over force. It needsto flip through the air with ease, and the trick is to ensure that the blade always ends up on the target.” He shakes my wrist lightly. “Loosen up a little,mishka. Stop trying to control everything by force. As you Americans like to say, just go with the flow.”

After a few times of going through the movement needed to properly throw a blade, he tells me this time will be for real. And the moment he whispers “release,” I let the knife fly from my fingertips.

The knife flips end-over-end through the air, then there’s the subtle thunk of the blade as it embeds itself in the tree, right between the eyes of my ex. I release a breath, caught up in the thrill of handling something so dangerous while also finding it rather … therapeutic.

“It feels good, doesn't it?” he asks over my shoulder.

“Yes,” I quietly confess. It's strange to admit that to him when I'm so used to fighting him every step of the way. But I’m eager to do it again.

He steps away to grab another blade and then hands it to me. This time he doesn't stand behind me, just quietly encourages me to throw the next one on my own.

I aim and release—missing terribly. The handle clatters against the trunk—of a tree I wasn’t even aiming for—and the knife drops to the ground.

Nikolai chuckles. “Did you think it was easy being a killer?”

I glare in his direction and snap, “No, but I don't need you laughing at me.”

He hands me another blade. “Loosen up, little doll. Stop trying to be perfect, and just feel the release.” I notice how he refers to me as little doll in this instance. Is that why he calls me that in front of others, because I’m seen as stiff like a plastic doll? Suddenly, I miss the way he calls memishka.

He crowds my back again, his hands roaming down my sides and over my hips. “You do like the feeling of a release, don't you?”

My breath hitches, my senses focused on every inch of me that he touches. One of his hands remains on my hip while his other straightens my posture before covering my hand where it wraps around the handle.

“Take a breath,” he instructs. I inhale deeply, focused more on his hand pressing against my hip than anything else. “Then release.”

He leads my hand, and the blade goes flying, sinking into my ex’s cheek on a different target. Another jolt of adrenaline runs through me.