Page 44 of Cruel Obsession

I rise and move to the window again, drawing back the curtain just enough to peer outside. Darkness has begun its slow crawl across the grounds, security lights blinking on around the perimeter.

And in a window of the east wing, a silhouette appears. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Standing motionless, looking out over his domain.

Arkady.

Even at this distance, I recognize the rigid line of his shoulders, the commanding set of his head. Something about seeing him—knowing he’s there, somewhere in this massive house—makes my pussy clench, a shameful warmth I can’t control.

I step back from the window, yanking the curtains closed.

Do not, under any circumstances, develop feelings for Arkady.

But as I prepare for dinner, brushing my hair and changing into the least shabby clothes I own, I wonder if whatever magnetism drew me to him at the wedding has already worked its way under my skin like a slow-acting poison.

I press my palms against my burning cheeks, forcing deep breaths into lungs that feel too small.

If I fail here—if I can’t handle this job, this house, this man—Dad dies. It’s that simple. That brutal. I have no fallbackplan, no safety net. Just this beautiful prison and the ice-eyed man who holds the keys.

I open my door and step into the hallway, repeating to myself:I am here to work. To earn money. To save my father.

Nothing more.

Chapter Thirteen

Arkady

I stare out of the window as I stand in my office, coffee untouched on my desk.

I pull out the key ring I’ve prepared for Mirabel, checking each one methodically. Thirty-seven keys in total. Each one labeled in my mind, if not on the metal itself.

One key is noticeably absent. The one to the Secret Room.

That space remains mine alone. A sanctuary I created after moving into Ashwater Heights—a place where Mishka’s ashes rest in their urn, where I can sit in the crushing weight of my guilt without witnesses. Where I can talk to a brother who’s been gone fifteen years.

I run my thumb over the signet ring on my finger, twisting it once, twice, fighting back the memories that are never far away.

The crack of the unexpected shot still echoes in my nightmares.

“Blyad!” I slam the drawer closed, forcing the memory back into its box. My control is slipping lately, these flashbacks coming more frequently since Mirabel entered my orbit. There’s something about her that threatens every wall I’ve built.

The intercom buzzes. Anfisa’s voice, measured as always. “The new housekeeper is waiting in the foyer as instructed.”

“Send her to my office.”

I straighten my cuffs, scan the room for imperfections, and move behind my desk. Power positions matter with her. Distance matters more.

Three sharp knocks on the door. Precise. Professional. Nothing like the edge of panic I see in her eyes whenever I get near her.

“Enter.”

She steps in wearing a simple black dress that’s clearly new—the tags are removed, but the creases haven’t been worn away. When she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with a nervous gesture, something primitive stirs in me. It’s not just her beauty—it’s the vulnerability she tries so hard to hide, the steel beneath the softness. Her hair is pulled back, revealing the clean line of her jaw, the vulnerable curve of her neck.

“Good morning, Mr. Laurov,” she says, voice steady despite the flush creeping up her neck.

“Arkady,” I correct her, watching her reaction. “You will call me Arkady in private. Mr. Laurov when others are present.”

She hesitates, then nods. “Arkady.”

My name in her mouth does something to my cock that I’m already paying for. I open my desk drawer and retrieve an envelope.