Page 71 of Reckless Obsession

There’s something else weighing on him. Something beyond the bodies found on his property.

“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the leather chair opposite him, his voice even but carrying that undercurrent of command.

I nod once and settle into it, mirroring his posture. Back straight, hands loose in my lap, face neutral. If this is a conversation, it’s already clear it won’t be simple.

He removes his glasses carefully, then folds and places them on the desk blotter, as if buying time to choose his weapon. When his eyes lift to mine again, any trace of warmth is gone and replaced by something cold, surgical, predatory.

“Is there something going on between you and Maksim?”

The question lands like a blade between my ribs. It’s clean, precise, and far too direct to be anything but calculated.

For a moment, I just look at him.

I don’t react outwardly. My expression doesn’t shift, nor does my posture. Yet beneath that stillness, something slides into place.

The silence stretches between us, thin and cutting, like wire pulled too tight. One wrong move and it snaps.

“Excuse me?” I say at last, voice even, giving nothing away. It’s not a denial yet, just enough to test the water.

“You heard me, Tristan,” he replies, one brow arching faintly, his gaze turning keen as a scalpel. “Is there something I should know?”

I lean back slightly in my chair and let out a slow breath, my expression staying neutral even as my mind moves ahead of me, calculating, dissecting, choosing what to give and what to bury. Every answer matters here. Every word is a step either toward control or toward losing it.

“I’m not involved with your son, Mr. Petrov,” I say, the lie slipping out clean and practiced, my gaze never leaving his.

But I don’t stop there. I don’t let him have the upper hand that easily.

“And if there was,” I add, my voice measured and careful but edged just enough to be intentional, “would that be a problem?”

I know it will be, but that’s not the point.

Something colder settles into his expression, something far more dangerous than anger.

“That depends,” he says, each word clipped and weighted, “on whether you’ve forgotten your place.”

It lands heavily exactly as intended, a reminder of the invisible lines drawn around men like me when we work for men like him. Employee. Contractor. Useful until you’re not.

I hold his gaze, steady, unflinching, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing anything shift beneath the surface.

“I haven’t,” I reply calmly. “And I don’t make a habit of crossing lines I can’t come back from.”

That’s true.

Or at least, it used to be.

His eyes don’t leave mine, not for a second. He studies me in a way that makes it clear he’s not just listening; he’s dissecting. Every word, every pause, every flicker of expression is being taken apart, weighed, and tested for weakness.

“Good,” he says finally, but there’s no warmth or relief in it. Just the flat acknowledgment of a man who’s decided to let the point stand for now.

The silence that follows is denser now, layered with everything we’re not saying: the bodies on the property, and the unspoken specter of Maksim hanging between us like smoke. I let it linger for a beat, then lean forward slightly, shifting the ground just enough to regain some footing.

“Maksim’s been… off,” I say, my voice quieter, more measured. “More reckless than usual, pushing boundaries he normally respects. You’ve seen it too.”

Pavel’s expression tightens just a fraction.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on him,” I continue, threading truth through the half-lie. “Making sure whatever he’s chasing doesn’t spiral into something we can’t contain.”

“Yes, I told you to keep an eye on him,” Pavel says, his voice stern, edged with steel. “To get him out of trouble when he needs it. But I also told you not to form a close relationship and not to cross those lines. Didn’t I?”