Page 55 of Cruel Obsession

She shrugs, but the gesture carries weight. “That’s up to him. You just stay away… from the room, and from him. That’s all you need to know.”

The warning isn’t new, but something in her tone is; a resignation, perhaps, or a recognition that her words will ultimately prove futile.

She turns back to gather her cleaning supplies, and I take another half-step away, preparing to retreat to safer territory.

That’s when I see it.

The key slipping from her pocket as she bends to collect a spray bottle. It falls silently onto the plush carpet, unnoticed as she continues her work.

And somehow, I know exactly what it is. The key to the room. This room. His forbidden space.

Time slows, stretches, warps around the moment. I should call out to her. Should point to the key. Should do anything except what my body is already doing—moving forward silently, heart already racing.

I bend down, fingers closing around cool metal, the weight of it substantial against my palm. The shape is distinctive, with an intricate design on the head that matches nothing else in the house.

Anfisa disappears back into the room, leaving me frozen in the hallway.

Tell her.

Give it back.

Walk away.

But I don’t.

I slip the key into my pocket, the metal settling against my thigh like a brand, damning and irresistible all at once. The weight of the key in my pocket feels like a death sentence waiting to be signed. I’ve seen the cold calculation in Arkady’s eyes when business calls. I’ve glimpsed the weapons hidden throughout thehouse. I know with bone-deep certainty that this man destroys what threatens him—and I’ve just positioned myself directly in his crosshairs.

“What the hell are you doing, Mira?” I whisper beneath my breath. But clearly, there’s no reasoning with me because I totally ignore my better judgment.

Anfisa emerges seconds later, arms full of used cleaning supplies. She secures the door with a different key from her chain, checking it twice before turning to face me.

“This room,” she says, voice softening slightly, “it’s the only place where Arkady allows himself to feel. Whatever you think you understand about him, you don’t. Not really.”

I nod, afraid to speak, afraid the guilt will leak into my voice and betray my theft.

“I’ve been with this family since before he was born,” she continues, her eyes distant now. “I’ve watched him build walls so high and thick that nothing gets through. Nothing except what lives in that room.” She gestures toward the locked door.

“Is that why you warned me about developing feelings for him?” I can’t help but ask it.

A sad smile touches her lips. “Partly.” She straightens her shoulders, professional demeanor returning. “I have more packing to finish. The family in St. Petersburg is expecting me next week.”

As she walks away, I’m left alone with the stolen key and a choice that feels too enormous to make with rational thought.

I should find a way to slip it back into her pocket, or leave it somewhere she’ll find it. I should respect the boundaries that have been drawn around Arkady’s private space.

But I don’t move. Don’t call after her. Don’t do anything except press my hand against my pocket, feeling the key’s outline through the fabric.

The image burns through me again: the sight of water tracing paths down carved muscle, ink flowing across toned skin. My body remembers too, a shameful heat building between my thighs at the memory. This man shouldn’t affect me this way. My fingers curl around the stolen key, and I hate how my body responds—pulse quickening, skin warming, a treacherous ache building deep in my core. This isn’t just curiosity anymore. This is something deeper, something that makes me press my thighs together as I turn away from his sanctuary.

Five thousand a month. Dad’s treatments. The contract binding me to Ashwater Heights for a full year.

All of it suddenly feels secondary to this key—this small piece of metal that might unlock not just a room but the enigma of Arkady Laurov himself.

The man who watched me with cold eyes as I signed away my freedom.

The man who stood naked and unashamed in his bedroom, water trailing down tattooed skin, as if daring me to touch him… or run away.

I close my eyes, just for a moment, and see him again—standing in that doorway, the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on.