Page 70 of Cruel Obsession

How easily he could protect me.

We fall quiet, our bodies a tangle of limbs and shared heat. My mind drifts to Rosanna, the woman who could have been in this bed instead of me. The woman whose heart he broke in front of the entire Russian community.

“What will happen to Rosanna now?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me as always.

“Nothing,” he answers, voice neutral. “She’ll find a better husband than I would have been. Someone who wants children.”

The statement hangs between us. I tilt my head to study his profile—the sharp cut of his jaw, the stubble darkening hisskin, the slight notch in his right eyebrow I hadn’t noticed until now.

“You don’t?” I ask softly.

His expression hardens instantly. The transition is jarring—like watching ice crystallize over flowing water. His muscles tense beneath my fingertips, the relaxed lover vanishing beneath the return of the ruthless businessman.

“Nyet.” The single Russian syllable is cold and hard. “Let’s change the topic.” His hand captures my wrist, not painfully but with unmistakable authority. “Why did you go to my private room?”

My mouth goes dry, pulse accelerating against his grip. The key weighs heavy in my memory—the lock turning, the forbidden threshold crossed. I feel suddenly, acutely aware of my nakedness beside him. Of my vulnerability.

“I was curious,” I admit quietly, fighting the urge to look away from that penetrating gaze.

“I need the key back,” he says firmly, his thumb pressing against my racing pulse. “Now.”

I reach over the side of the bed, my movement constrained by his grip until he releases me. I fish through the pocket of my discarded dress; the metal key is warm from being pressed against my body all day. “Here it is. And… sorry again.” I place it in his palm, watching his long fingers curl around it. “But can I ask you something?”

His muscles tense beneath the sheets. The shift is subtle but unmistakable—like watching a predator move from rest to alertness in a heartbeat. The sheet slides lower, revealing more of the dense artwork across his chest and shoulders—the wings stretch toward his throat in a way that makes him look both angelic and demonic simultaneously.

“What?” His eyes narrow slightly, the ice in them hardening.

I know I’m crossing a line, but I can’t stop myself. “Who is Mishka?”

Arkady’s face transforms. The man who touched me with such tenderness minutes ago disappears completely. His jaw tightens, the muscle jumping beneath taut skin.

“Chert voz’mi,” he mutters, the Russian curse sliding through his clenched teeth. He turns away, presenting me with the rigid line of his back, the sheet falling to his waist to reveal more tattoos spanning across his shoulder blades.

“Forget about the urn,” he says. Each word is sharp, cutting.

I reach for his shoulder, feeling the heat radiating from his skin, the tension coiled in every muscle. “Arkady—”

He whips around with frightening speed, gripping my shoulders in hands large enough to engulf them completely. His fingers dig into my flesh, not enough to bruise but enough to command absolute attention. His body looms over mine, using his size to intimidate as he stares down at me, no longer ice but something darker, wilder.

“You do not ask questions,” he says, each word precise and controlled. His accent thickens with his anger, voice dropping an octave. “Understand?”

My lungs constrict, heart thundering madly. This isn’t just anger—it’s raw pain wrapped in fury. I’ve touched something far more dangerous than I realized. Yet even now, with his fingers pressing into my skin and his face twisted with rage, my traitorous body responds—nipples tightening, heat building between my thighs.

“I understand,” I whisper, hating the tremor in my voice.

He releases my shoulders and rises from the bed in one fluid motion. I watch, frozen in place, as muscles ripple beneath his skin with each controlled movement. He’s beautiful in his anger—terrifying and magnificent. The sinewy strength in histhighs, the powerful line of his back, the casual display of his naked body that reminds me how completely he’d dominated me barely an hour ago.

He grabs his boxer briefs and pants, dressing with fast, abrupt movements. I can’t look away as he transforms back into Mr. Laurov—unreachable, unknowable. Each piece of clothing is armor sliding into place, rebuilding the walls between us.

“This should never have happened,” he says, not looking at me as he buttons his shirt, fingers moving rapidly over the expensive fabric. His signet ring catches the light as he works, the heavy steel a reminder of whatever power he wields beyond these walls.

The words hit harder than I expect. Just minutes ago, he was inside me, groaning against my neck as he came. Now he might as well be on another continent.

I snap back into reality, into my role. Just the housekeeper who crossed a line, who will now face the consequences. I scramble for my clothes, yanking them on with clumsy fingers, painfully aware of how my body still throbs from his attention. The inside of my thighs are sticky with evidence of our coupling—the juices he drew from me still slick upon my skin.

“I’d better get down to work,” I say, the words hollow in my throat.

I don’t look at him as I slip out of the room, keeping my head down like the servant I’m supposed to be. My dress feels too tight, too revealing, the fabric carrying his scent. I imagine every person I pass in the hallways will know what I’ve done, will see the marks his mouth left on my neck, will smell him on my skin.