Page 29 of Reckless Obsession

The lights inside are off, and I don’t bother switching them on. The city beyond the glass walls spills in enough illumination. Silver skyscrapers piercing the dark, headlights threading through the streets like restless veins, distant movement reduced to something almost abstract from this height. I step inside, letting the door close quietly behind me, my gaze shifting automatically to my desk out of habit more than thought—

And I stop.

My chair is angled toward the windows, facing the skyline as if someone has been gazing at the view. I don’t recall leaving it in that position.

I stand very still, listening. The silence feels heavier than it should, pressing faintly against my ears. The air is different, and my eyes adjust further to the dimness, tracing the outline of the high backrest, the faint silhouette barely visible against the city glow.

I tilt my head slightly, studying it, already knowing what I’m about to confirm. Someone is seated there. I don’t ask who. I don’t announce myself either. I simply wait.

Slowly, deliberately, the chair begins to turn. Leather creaks in the quiet, the sound soft but unnervingly loud in the still room. The movement is unhurried and confident, as if this is his office and I’m the one intruding.

Maksim Petrov.

He sits comfortably in my chair as if he owns it. Like he owns the room. Like he owns the very oxygen between us. There’s no smile on his face tonight, no playful mockery—only something electric simmering behind his eyes, something unstable barely contained beneath his calm. The metal in his hand catches the light as he lifts it fully into view.

A gun.

And he points it directly at my face.

❧

A gun has been pointed at my face three times in my thirty-three years of life.

Three instances when I could almost feel death’s breath. Each time, I anticipated and accepted it, yet none of the gunmen survived to see another day.

I tilt my head slightly, studying Maksim seated in my chair. The pistol in his hand looks natural, as if it were an extension of him.

He isn’t shaking or hesitating as he keeps the gun aimed at me, but there’s something feral in his eyes tonight. Not just anger. Not just recklessness.

Possession.

And God help me, something about it sends a slow, illicit heat through my chest. It’s not fear. It’s not even surprise. It’s something darker. A pulse that sinks lower, coils tighter. My stomach knots. Not in dread, but in something dangerously close to want.

And I won’t deny, right now, he looks unhinged and devastatingly beautiful.

I take a step forward.

“Take one more step,” he says, his voice deadly serious. “And I promise you, Tristan, I’ll blow your brains out.”

“In anything you do tonight,” I reply evenly, my voice tightening. “do not let your guard down. If my hand gets on that gun, you’re done for.”

A hint of anger flashes across his face.

“Fuck you,” he snaps, rising in one smooth motion with the gun still aimed at me. The city light reflects off the metal, shining silver between us. “Why are you back with him?”

I frown, letting confusion crease my expression.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he barks. “That stupid fucker and his family were at my parents’ house yesterday, spewing bullshit about you two being back together.”

Ah.

So that’s what this is.

I study him carefully, watching the way anger radiates off his body like heat off asphalt.

He’s always been like this when it comes to me.