Page 105 of Cruel Obsession

Tears spill over despite my best efforts to contain them. For this—for my father’s life—I would work for the Devil. And some days, that’s exactly what Arkady Laurov seems to be.

“So stick with it,” Diane urges. “Make your terrifying Russian boss happy and keep that money flowing.”

I straighten my shoulders and wipe my face, nodding even though she can’t see me. “You’re right. Thanks, Di.”

“And afterward, we need to figure out your endgame with this pregnancy. You can’t hide it forever in that house.”

A glance at the clock sends a jolt of anxiety through me. “One catastrophe at a time. I’ll call later.”

After ending the call, I stare at Arkady’s list once more. My father is healing. Nothing else matters—not Arkady’s impossible demands, not the pregnancy, not the danger of living under a crime lord’s roof.

I return to my tasks with renewed focus, methodically working through the recipe despite the fatigue dragging at my limbs. The kitchen fills with aromas that would be comforting anywhere else. Here, they just remind me of the men who will soon gather around Arkady’s table—men with blood-crusted money and eyes that evaluate women as property.

The soup simmers as I start on the second dish. Outside the kitchen windows, I notice two of Arkady’s security men making a perimeter check, their suit jackets failing to conceal shoulder holsters. One of them—Mikhail, I think—touches his earpiece and nods, eyes scanning the tree line bordering the property. Always watching, always expecting something bad to happen.

I’ve almost finished the main course when I sense it—a shift in the air, a pressure change that makes the hair on my arms rise. Before I hear anything, my body reacts, tensing in recognition. My nervous system knows him before my ears register the sound of his approach.

Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Deliberate. The measured tread of the man I work for.

I continue chopping, though my movements become jerky, uneven. The footsteps stop. I don’t need to look up to know he’s watching me from the doorway, assessing, judging.

“This is all you’ve managed?” Arkady’s voice slices through the kitchen, his accent thickening with displeasure.

I force myself to look at him. Today, he wears a tailored charcoal suit that emphasizes the coiled strength of his frame.His dark hair is swept back from his forehead, revealing eyes colder than a Siberian winter.

“I’m making progress,” I say, aiming for a neutral tone and missing by miles.

Arkady enters the kitchen, moving with the casual grace of someone who knows how to use his body as a weapon. His eyes take in everything—the prepared dishes, the untouched ingredients, me—with the same clinical assessment I’ve seen him use when examining shipment manifests. People and products, all the same to him.

“Not enough progress.” He steps closer. “Everything must be perfect by four.”

Something in me fractures. “Yes, because heaven forbid the murderers and traffickers eat soup that hasn’t simmered for the full four hours,” I snap, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “I’m one person trying to do the work of three, Arkady.”

His expression shifts from irritation to something more dangerous. “Watch your tongue,” he says softly. “You forget yourself and your place in this house.”

“My place?” I laugh, the sound brittle and reckless. “Right now, my place is apparently chef, maid, and event coordinator all at once. For—”

I stop abruptly as Arkady moves forward, eliminating the space between us in two long strides. His hand closes around my wrist, not painfully tight but with enough pressure to remind me of his strength.

“Your place,” he says, voice dropping lower, “is wherever I decide it is. You work for me. You live under my protection. You accepted both when you took this position.”

His thumb rests directly over my pulse point, and I know he can feel my heartbeat racing beneath his touch. My body betrays me, responding to his proximity with a rush of heat thathas nothing to do with anger and everything to do with memory—his mouth on my skin, his hands everywhere, the weight of him pressing me into silk sheets.

“You’re hurting me,” I lie, needing him to let go before I do something stupid like lean into his touch and jump his bones in the middle of the kitchen.

He doesn’t release me. Instead, his free hand rises to my face, fingers brushing my cheek in a touch so unexpectedly gentle it steals my breath. The contradiction between his words and his caress makes my head spin.

“Am I?” he murmurs, searching my face. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingering there. “I don’t think I am, Mirabel. I think you’re lying.”

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Without breaking eye contact, Arkady reaches into my pocket and extracts it. He glances at the screen, then silences the call and slips the phone into his suit jacket.

“Hey!” I protest, reaching for it instinctively.

He catches my hand mid-air. “Who is Diane?”

The question contains a threat. I’ve seen what happens to people Arkady perceives as threats to his business, his family, or his property. And right now, I don’t know which category I fall into.

“A friend,” I say carefully. “Nothing to do with you or… this place.”