Page 77 of Cruel Obsession

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help taking a route past Arkady’s bedroom. I slow, noticing the door stands slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness beyond. He never leaves it open. Never.

I should continue on. I should give him the privacy he guards so fiercely.

But a sound stops me—a low, guttural moan that raises the hair on my arms.

I hesitate, holding my breath. Then another sound—words this time, distorted by sleep but unmistakably distressed.

Before I can reconsider, I gently push the door wider.

Moonlight streams through the open drapes, illuminating the massive bed where Arkady lies tangled in sheets. His bare chest gleams with sweat, muscles tense beneath tattooed skin. His face is twisted in anguish, lips moving in broken phrases.

“Nyet, bratok,”he mutters, head thrashing from side to side. “Brother. I didn’t mean to. No, please. I miss you.”

The raw pain in his voice shatters something inside me. This is Arkady Laurov stripped of defenses—no arrogance, no control, just a man haunted by ghosts I know nothing about.

I approach the bed silently. His body is coiled tight, fighting demons I can’t see. Without allowing myself to think, I sit on the edge of the mattress and place my hand on his shoulder.

His skin burns beneath my palm, fever-hot and slick with sweat. The muscles jump at my touch.

“Shh,” I whisper, my thumb tracing slow circles against his collarbone. “It’s just a nightmare.”

He tosses his head, eyelids moving, and I suck in a breath. He doesn’t wake, though, lips still moving in soundless conversation with someone long gone. I keep tracing those circles, then raise a hand to stroke his cheek before smoothing my hand over his hair. Wherever he is, he’s in too deep to surface anytime soon.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, swallowing a lump in my throat at the sight of the sheer anguish on his face. “You’re okay.” I keep stroking his hair.

He stills beneath my hand, his breathing ragged but slowing. I watch his face in the moonlight, the severe lines softening, dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. In sleep, the hardness falls away, revealing the man beneath the monster.

Poor baby,I think—which is probably the first time anyone has applied the phrase to him.You’re hurting. You’re hurting so bad.

Impulse drives me forward. Or something else I can’t name. Before common sense can intervene, I lift the tangled sheet and slide beneath it, fitting my body alongside his. The heat of him engulfs me immediately, his scent wrapping around me—heat and musk and mouthwateringly male.

His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me closer in unconscious need. I feel the hard length of his erection press against my thigh, and desire tightens my pussy muscles, even though this is absolutely not the right time.

What the fuck are you doing, Mirabel?

I know I should leave. This intimacy feels more dangerous than any of our previous encounters—this isn’t about sex or power or the strange game we’ve been playing for weeks. This is comfort. This is care.

But I remain, my head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder, my palm flat against the thundering beat of his heart. His breathing deepens, the nightmare releasing its grip as he sinks into dreamless sleep.

I don’t know how long I lie there, drinking in the forbidden closeness, memorizing the weight of his arm around me, the rhythm of his breath, the impossible vulnerability of this moment.

When I’m certain he’s completely settled, I carefully extricate myself from his embrace. The loss of his warmth makes me shiver as I stand beside the bed, watching him for a moment longer.

Who are you really, Arkady Laurov?

What is haunting your dreams?

What have you done that follows you even into sleep?

Questions without answers. Mysteries I have no right to solve.

Time to bolt, girl.

I slip from his room like a ghost, closing the door silently behind me. In the darkened hallway, I press my back against the wall, struggling to calm my racing heart.

This thing between us has shifted tonight, crossed a line I didn’t know existed. Sex was one thing—a mutual using, a scratching of an itch. But this… this tenderness feels more treacherous than desire ever could.

Back in my own room, I lie awake until dawn breaks, staring at the ceiling as reality settles coldly in my chest. This job was supposed to be simple—clean his house, take his money, pay Dad’s medical bills. Nothing complicated.