Page 213 of Reckless Obsession

Shock tears across his features. A raw, stunned disbelief so profound that his jaw goes slack as he stares at me as if an impossible vision has materialized in the middle of his living room.

My own mouth parts, completely derailed. I hadn’t prepared for this. I came here hunting memories; I never thought he’d actually be sleeping in this empty apartment.

Tristan’s hands drop, his fingers uncoiling as he lowers the weapon to his side. He lets out a deep, shuddering exhale that trembles with sheer, shaken relief.

“I thought you were an intruder when I heard the door chime,” he rasps, his voice rough, low, and cracked from sheer disuse.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out before my brain can stop my mouth.

It’s such an aggressively stupid question. He pays the lease on this place. He owns every square foot of hardwood beneath our feet.

The question catches him completely off guard, and his dark brows lift in a dry, bewildered look that sends hot humiliation prickling at the back of my neck. I clear my throat, shifting my helmet beneath my arm like a shield.

“Why are you wearing that?” he asks.

I look down at myself.

The Nightwing suit suddenly feels much less intimidating when I am standing in the middle of an apartment full of memories, caught trespassing emotionally at two in the morning.

“I was at a costume party,” I snap, and instantly want to bite my own tongue off. Why the fuck am I giving him an explanation? I narrow my eyes, leaning hard into the venom. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here, Tristan?”

“I own this place, Maksim,” he replies, voice steady, unhurried, infuriating.

“Right,” I sneer, my tone dripping with bitter, acidic mockery. “So you don’t stay at your penthouse anymore? Or is your darling husband not giving you enough peace of mind there?”

The change in Tristan is instantaneous. His jaw locks so hard the muscles feather along his neck, his dark eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity that would terrify anyone else.

“We need to talk,” he says, taking a heavy step into the living room.

“No, the fuck we don’t.”

I spin on my heel, already lunging for the front door. Every alarm in my manic brain blares at once—run, get out, do not let him close, do not let him dismantle you.

“I don’t have a single fucking thing to say to you,” I throw over my shoulder.

“Maksim, stop.”

I keep walking.

“I mean it.”

“So do I.”

My hand is inches from the door when his fingers close firmly around my arm.

My entire body goes rigid.

Then he turns me around before I can pull away, bringing me face-to-face with him.

“Let go.” I grit out, warning in my voice.

“I’m not letting you go,” he says, his voice low and controlled. “Not this time. You spent two weeks acting like I’m a ghost in my own city, dodging my calls, ignoring my texts, you don’t get to walk into my apartment at two in the morning and then run the second I look at you.”

“Your apartment?” I bark a wild, humorless laugh right in his face, my chest heaving against his. “I came here because I thought this was the one place on earth I wouldn’t have to look at your lying, cowardly face! Let go of me, Tristan, or I swear to God I’ll put a bullet through your skull.”

His dark eyes narrow to vicious slits.

Instead of backing down, he shoves me hard against the wall beside the door. The impact rattles the breath out of my lungs, his broad, towering frame caging me in before I can recover.