Page 91 of Reckless Obsession

“So you didn’t invite me here because I texted you about how I couldn’t feel your cock in me anymore?” He asks. There’s something in his tone I can’t quite place. Curiosity, maybe. Or something riskier than that.

I give him a look. “Is it really that hard to believe?”

He’s about to answer when I hear the unmistakable sound of my apartment door unlocking.

The keypad beeps. The door opens. Then closes.

Maksim’s expression changes immediately, curiosity giving way to alertness. I straighten, already moving around the counter because there are exactly two people on earth with access to my apartment, and none of them should be walking in unannounced.

Then Jake comes into view. He steps into the living room and stops cold when he sees us in the open kitchen.

For a second, the whole apartment goes still.

What the fuck is he doing here?

My gaze flicks instantly to Maksim. He’s already staring at Jake, and whatever softness had settled on his face a minute ago is completely gone. In its place is pure hostility, bright and immediate, as if rage has taken over every line of him.

Then I look back at Jake.

His eyes are on Maksim too, but he doesn’t seem especially shaken by the murderous glare aimed his way. If anything, he looks amused. He lets out a short chuckle before his gaze finally shifts to me. That’s when I see it. The slight hardening around his mouth, the flash of something hurt underneath the composure he’s trying to hold together.

“Well, well,” he says, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. “Did I interrupt something special?”

“Of course you fucking did, you absolute loser,” Maksim snaps, his voice tight with fury.

I let out a tired breath and close my eyes for half a second.

So much for a peaceful evening.

Chapter 18

MAKSIM

The second Jake walks in like he still owns the fucking place, something ugly and violent explodes in my chest.

It’s immediate, hot and mean. The kind of anger that doesn’t sit in one part of the body but takes all of it at once. The way he stands here in Tristan’s apartment as if he belongs in the air, in the furniture, in the low shadows thrown by the lights, makes my skin crawl. Like divorce was just paperwork neither of them took seriously. Like two years means absolutely nothing. Like I’m the one who should feel out of place here.

God, I hate him.

Not casually. Not theatrically. I hate him with precision, with history, with years of resentment that have turned into something clean and vicious. And standing here now, watching him look around this place with that faint, superior amusement on his face, I can feel every ugliest part of me rise to meet him.

Jake’s gaze slides back to Tristan, all polished ease and carefully practiced calm, but I catch what sits under it. The hard edge. The hurt too. He’s trying to hide it, but I see it anyway.

Good.

I hope it fucking hurts.

“Well, well,” he says, slipping his hands into his coat pockets. “Did I interrupt something special?”

“Of course you fucking did, you absolute loser.” I snap before I can stop myself.

Tristan lets out a tired breath beside me, but I don’t look at him. I can’t. Not right now. Because all I can think about is what the hell Jake is doing here and why he’s standing in this apartment like he still has some kind of claim to it.

“What did you just call me?”

“Did I stutter?”

He lets out a low and condescending chuckle, like I’m some amusing child throwing a tantrum.