Page 78 of Cruel Obsession

But now I’ve seen too much of Arkady Laurov. The ruthless businessman. The vulnerable man with nightmares about his brother. The lover who wakes something in me I thought long dead.

I turn onto my side, watching the first pale light creep across my floor. I need to be more careful. Whatever’s happening between us—this strange, magnetic pull—it can’t end well.

Not for him.

And certainly not for me.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Arkady

I jolt awake, throat raw, sweat soaking the sheets.

Mishka’s face—frozen in that final moment of confusion. Blood spreading across his chest. The way his small body crumpled, like someone had cut his strings. The copper scent of blood mixing with gunpowder.

“Blyad,” I growl into the darkness, the curse ripping from my throat.

I drag a hand down my face, wiping away sweat and the last fragments of sleep. The nightmare feels more vivid than usual, more immediate. As if Mishka was just here, close enough to touch.

I sit up, listening to the silence of the house at dawn. The emptiness of the bed beside me feels wrong. Something nags at my consciousness—a whisper of warmth, a phantom weight, the ghost of comfort.

I could swear Mirabel was here. In my bed. Calming me through the nightmare.

That’s a new level of pathetic, mudak.

Now you’re dreaming about her comforting you?

But it felt so real. Her hand on my chest. Her voice. The subtle floral scent of her shampoo on my pillow.

My cock stirs, hardening against my thigh at the thought of her. I stare down at the betrayal of my own body with disgust. Fifteen years later, and I’m still the same selfish bastard. Waking from nightmares about my dead brother, only to immediately think about fucking the woman who works for me.

The woman who’s becoming mine in ways that terrify me.

Chert voz’mi.

I drop back against the pillows, tension vibrating through me with nowhere to go. My hand slides beneath the sheet, wrapping around my cock before I can think better of it. The contact sends a jolt of relief through my system—one form of release in place of another.

I close my eyes, stroking myself roughly. I don’t deserve tenderness, especially not in this. Not when I’m thinking of her.

But I do think of her. Mirabel’s dark eyes. The soft curve of her hips. The way she bites her bottom lip when she’s nervous. How she felt wrapped around me, tight and perfect.

My strokes quicken, my breath shortening. She’d whispered my name that night, right at the end—not Mr. Laurov, butArkady—and the sound of it had nearly shattered me. I imagine her saying it now, imagine her watching me.

I want to claim her completely—mark her as mine where everyone can see, not just in hidden moments behind locked doors. Mine to protect. Mine to keep. The thought sends fire through my veins, more potent than any drug.

My hand keeps pumping, hips lifting as the sensations build to a fever pitch. The orgasm rips through me without warning, intense and unsatisfying all at once. I come across my stomach, muscles taut, teeth clenched to trap any sound.

After, the emptiness feels worse.

I clean up methodically, taking a scalding shower, washing away the evidence but not the guilt. The water pounds against my shoulders, my ink dark against skin reddened by heat.

I stand under the spray long past necessary, letting it burn away the lingering effects of the dream, the memory of Mishka, the shame of using Mirabel this way, even just in my thoughts.

By the time I dress and head downstairs, my mask is firmly back in place. I am Arkady Laurov again—the man whomakes rival Bratva captains cross the street to avoid meeting my eyes.

But it slips the moment I step into the kitchen.

Mirabel stands at the counter, preparing a meal. She’s dressed casually in jeans and a loose emerald sweater that makes her skin glow. Her hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and the sight of her—domestic and beautiful in my space—makes something tighten in my chest.