Page 61 of Cruel Obsession

But everything has changed. I’ve seen beneath Arkady’s mask. Felt his grief lingering in a room he keeps separate from the rest of his life.

As I push the mop across the floor, shame burns through me with each stroke. But beneath it runs a current of something darker, more honest.

I want him. Despite knowing better. Despite every warning sign. Despite the danger he represents and the secrets he keeps.

I want Arkady Laurov in ways that terrify me.

And I have no idea what to do with that truth.

Chapter Twenty

Arkady

Tulikov’s face is twisted with dark satisfaction as his words hang in the air. He knows he got to me, and he’s drinking in my pain.

Not for long, mudak!

I slam him against the concrete wall behind us, my forearm crushing his windpipe.

“You threaten me again, I will break your fucking neck.” The words scrape out of my throat, rough and raw.

His eyes gleam with a hatred that matches my own. But there’s something else there. Something that makes my stomach turn. Amusement.

“You think I’m afraid of you?” He wheezes through the pressure I’m applying. “After what I know? Child killer!”

My grip falters for a fraction of a second. Long enough for him to reach into his jacket.

The knife catches the dim streetlight as he swings his arm, aiming for my ribs. But I’ve spent a lifetime preparing for men who fight dirty. My reflexes take over before conscious thought can form.

I twist sideways, capturing his wrist in a bone-crushing grip and wrenching until the weapon clatters to the concrete. The sound echoes through the night air.

Tulikov’s knee drives upward, aiming for my groin, but I shift just enough that it glances off my thigh instead. The impact still sends shockwaves of pain up my leg.

“Is this how you solve all your problems?” I snarl, dodging as he attempts to rake his fingers across my eyes. “Like a common street thug?”

He laughs—a wet, ugly sound. “Says the man who couldn’t even marry my daughter without making a spectacle.” His elbow catches me in the ribs, hard enough that my breath stutters. “She’s ruined because of you. And now you’re fucking that housekeeper like some kind of—”

I don’t let him finish. My fist connects with his temple, snapping his head sideways. He staggers, but doesn’t fall.

“Don’t say another word about her.” The calm in my voice terrifies even me. Not hot rage anymore—something colder, more focused. Something that belongs to my father’s world, not mine.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, staining his teeth as he grins. “Wonder what she’d think if she knew about you. What you did.”

My vision tunnels, black closing in at the edges.

“Maybe I’ll tell her myself.” His voice drops to something silky, venomous. “After I’ve had a taste. I saw what she looked like that day. Pretty little thing. Those lips. Those tits—”

He goes for my eyes again, but I’m done playing. I sidestep and land a precise left hook to his jaw. The impact reverberates up my arm. Tulikov’s head snaps back—too far, too fast—and the momentum carries him forward as his legs give way.

I see it happen in slow motion. His body lurches awkwardly, face aimed directly toward the concrete curb. The sickening crack as his neck meets the edge shoots through me like an electrical current.

He doesn’t move after that.

He’s never going to move again.

The silence that follows feels absolute, broken only by my ragged breathing and the distant music.

“Blyad,” I whisper, then louder: “blyad!”