Page 30 of Reckless Obsession

Possessive.

Volatile.

Honest in ways he doesn’t understand.

But he’s never pointed a gun at me before.

Not until now.

I exhale slowly and shrug off my coat, letting it fall over the back of a nearby chair. Then I begin rolling up my sleeves, slow and unhurried. The fabric slides over my forearms as I fold it back, exposing skin inch by inch.

I never break eye contact.

Neither does he.

His gaze follows every movement, sharp and unblinking. And there it is again—that flicker. Fascination. Violence. Something darker. Something hungrier. All of it braided together behind those dark, storm-heavy eyes.

The tension between us stretches tight as wire.

“What exactly are you pointing a gun at me for?” I ask, sounding almost curious and amused. “And while we’re at it, how did you get onto this floor? And into my office without my assistant noticing?”

He blinks.

It’s not the reaction or question he expected. He expected denial, anger or a confession. Lucky for him, I’m not in the mood to give him any of those things tonight.

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he says, brows pulling together, irritation flashing.

“Why are you here, Maksim?” I ask, my voice steady but stern.

He shoots me a look as if I’ve insulted his intelligence.

“You already know why I’m here.”

“I don’t, actually.” I shrug. “You heard I’m back with Jake, so you broke into my office and decided the appropriate response was to point a gun at me?”

“Well, that’s the reason I’m pointing a gun at you,” he snaps, giving me a look that clearly says, are you fucking stupid?

The absurdity of it makes a scoff slip from my mouth before I can stop it.

His eyes narrow at that.

“Oh, now I’m funny?” he demands, something almost wounded cutting through his anger. “Now I’m a joke to you?”

That wipes the faint amusement from my face instantly.

“You might be the most infuriating, reckless piece of work in my life right now, Maksim,” I say quietly, voice tightening and honest. “But I will never see you as a joke. I don’t take you lightly. Not for a second.”

He blinks as the word hits him.

His expression shifts just slightly. The hardness dulls at the edges. His eyes soften a little, though the gun remains steady in his grip.

“Drop the gun,” I say quietly.

“No,” he says stubbornly. “You don’t get to go back to him,” he continues, his voice tightening, emotion bleeding through whether he wants it to or not. “You don’t get to act like I don’t exist.”

Something about the way his voice cracks on that last sentence makes my insides tighten in a way I don’t appreciate. I clench my jaw hard because what I want to do right now is close the distance, grab him by the collar, and crush my mouth against his just to shut him up.

Instead, I take one slow step forward.