Page 93 of Cruel Obsession

I consider ignoring her question or offering some casual dismissal that would maintain the distance I’ve cultivated. Butsomething about her—about the rawness of what just happened between us—demands honesty.

“I don’t know,” I admit, the confession costing me. “I only know I can’t stay away from you.”

Something shifts in her expression—surprise, maybe. She moves to separate us, wincing slightly as my cock slides out of her slick pussy. I brush my lips against hers, then lean back and button the front of her uniform, watching as she transforms back into my housekeeper before my eyes. But the illusion is imperfect now—her hair mussed from my fingers, her lips swollen from my kisses, her skin still flushed.

I tuck my cock away, zipping my pants. The contrast between our passion and this mundane after-ritual strikes me as absurd. We’ve shared the most intimate connection possible, yet now pretend it can be contained, controlled, forgotten.

“You should rest,” I tell her, noting again the exhaustion etched in her features. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

She offers a tired smile. “Pot, kettle.”

The casual remark—the implied familiarity in it—triggers something unexpected in my chest. A warmth I thought long extinguished.

“I mean it,” I press. “Take the afternoon off. Sleep.”

“Is that an order, Mr. Laurov?” A hint of defiance returns to her voice, reminding me of the woman who stood her ground that first day, challenging me over door keys.

“If it needs to be.”

She studies me for a long moment, then nods, accepting the directive without further argument. As she rises to leave, I catch her wrist, holding her in place.

“Mirabel,” I say, my thumb brushing over her pulse point. “This changes things.”

She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Does it?”

“You know it does.”

Her free hand reaches out, surprising me as she traces the line of my jaw with gentle fingers. “Then figure out what you want this to be, Mr. Laurov. Because I won’t be your dirty secret forever.”

The quiet strength in her declaration stirs something in me—respect tangled with desire. She pulls free from my grip and walks away, posture straight despite her fatigue. I watch her go, unable to tear my eyes from her, the soft sway of her hips, the proud tilt of her head.

When I’m alone, the emptiness of the room settles around me. But something has shifted inside me, changed in ways I don’t know how to process. I’ve spent years building walls, creating distance, maintaining control. With each encounter, Mirabel strips away another layer of defense.

I’m falling for her, and I can’t stop it.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it settles something restless in my chest. I lean back, staring at the ceiling, allowing the truth to sink in. She’s becoming essential—not just physically, but in ways that reach parts of me I thought long dead.

As my mind drifts, connecting scattered threads, an intrusive thought strikes with the force of a bullet. Six years ago. Her twin sister. Missing in the woods. A big man with head tattoos.

Puzzle pieces I’ve been ignoring slot into place, forming a picture too horrific to contemplate. The timing. The modus operandi. The tattoo description.

I wonder if my father has anything to do with Mirabel’s sister’s disappearance.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Arkady

My phone burns in my hand as I try Stefan’s number for what must be the twentieth time this morning.

The screen shows the call connecting, ringing once, twice—then nothing. Not even voicemail kicks in anymore. I pull the device away, stare at the blank display like it’s betrayed me. Sweat trickles down my spine, the cotton of my shirt sticking to my skin. My pulse drums against my throat, each beat harder than the last.

This isn’t like him. My second-in-command is never unavailable—not to me. First, it was irritation; now it’s morphed into something worse. Something that makes my stomach go tight and cold, like I’ve swallowed ice.

I pace my office as I dial his home number instead, fingers stabbing at the screen. The phone rings longer this time. Three times. Four. On the fifth ring, someone picks up.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice, thick with tears, barely holding together.

“Natalia, it’s Arkady.”