Page 79 of Cruel Obsession

Moya.

Mine.

She looks up, her expression instantly shifting to professional. “Good morning,” she says, gesturing to a plate she’s prepared. “Your protein breakfast. Eggs, avocado, cottage cheese.”

The food looks immaculate, precisely arranged. Everything in its place. The way I like it. The way I need it.

My gaze catches on a slight pink mark at the edge of her collarbone where her sweater dips—a bruise I left there two nights ago. The sight of my mark on her skin sends a jolt of satisfaction through me that I have no right to feel.

“Isn’t it your day off?” I ask, keeping my voice neutral. I slide onto the stool at the kitchen island, keeping the marble between us.

“It is. I’m going at ten.” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel, not quite meeting my eyes. “The plumbers are coming at nine, and I have to show them the pipe burst. And while I’m waiting for them, I made your breakfast.”

Something about the tidiness of her explanation rings false. She’s nervous. Hiding something. But what?

I watch her movements, taking in the subtle tells—the quick dart of her eyes, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the slight flush creeping up her neck. I’ve spent years readingpeople who are trying to lie to me. People who’ve died for lying to me.

“Thank you,” I say, picking up the fork. The first bite is perfect—the eggs just how I like them, the right balance of salt and pepper. She’s been paying attention. Learning my preferences. The realization is both pleasing and terrifying.

I take a sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of the mug. “I had a strange dream last night,” I say casually.

“Really?” She doesn’t look at me.

“In my dream, you were in my bed.”

Her face flushes instantly, a deep rose staining her cheeks. She turns away, busying herself with wiping down an already clean counter.

“Dreams can feel very real sometimes,” she says.

Not a denial. Interesting.

The realization hits me: she was there. She actually came to my room during the night. I struggle to keep my expression neutral as implications cascade through my mind.

Why would she come? What did she hear? How much did I reveal in my weakened state?

Before I can pursue it, she’s gathering her purse, her movements slightly too quick to be casual.

“I’m off now,” she announces. “See you tomorrow evening.”

An impulse seizes me—to grab her wrist, to demand answers, to pull her against me and taste the truth on her lips. My hand actually twitches toward her before I force it flat against the counter.

Not yet. This game between us has rules, even if neither of us understands them fully.

And just like that, she’s gone, the kitchen suddenly too large and too empty without her presence.

I finish my breakfast mechanically, mind churning. The fact that she saw me vulnerable—that she offered comfort rather than using it against me—defies everything I understand about how the world works. People exploit weakness. They don’t soothe it and slip away without demanding something in return.

That’s what my father taught me. That’s what fifteen years in the Bratva has confirmed, time and again.

What game is she playing? What does she want from me?

The coffee turns bitter on my tongue as a more terrifying possibility emerges: what if she wants nothing? What if she simply saw me suffering and responded with kindness?

That would make her dangerous in ways I’m not equipped to handle.

I leave my plate in the sink and retreat to my office, seeking the sanctuary of work. But the mountain of tasks waiting on my desk can’t compete with the chaos in my head.

Mishka. Mirabel. Rosanna.