Page 34 of Cruel Obsession

“Six years ago,” he says, more to himself than to me.

“Does that matter?”

He ignores my question. “No other family? No one who would miss you if you moved here?”

“Just my father.” I shift in my seat. I don’t mention Diane, who’s as close as a sister; he doesn’t need to know every damned thing about me.

“Good,” he says. Before I can ask what’s good about my isolation, he reaches into another drawer and pulls out a stack of cash so thick my breath catches.

“Ten thousand,” he says, setting it on the desk between us. “For your father’s treatment.”

I stare at the money, then at him, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”

“You’ll get another ten next week. It’s a loan. I’ll deduct payments from your salary.” His tone is matter-of-fact, as if he hasn’t just laid a mind-boggling sum in front of me. “You start Monday. Eight sharp.”

My head spins. This can’t be happening. Men like Arkady Laurov don’t just hand over twenty thousand dollars to women they barely know.

“Why would you do this?” The question tumbles out, breathless with disbelief.

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see something raw beneath the ice. Then it’s gone, locked away behind walls I doubt anyone has ever breached.

“Because I can,” he says simply. “And because it solves a problem.”

“What problem?”

“The problem of your distraction.” He gestures to the money. “Now you can focus entirely on your duties here.”

I stare at him. It seems too good to be true. But with ten thousand dollars sitting in front of me—the exact amount needed for Dad’s next round of treatment—I can’t bring myself to push.

“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.

“Say you’ll be here Sunday evening to begin training with Anfisa the next morning.” He slides a contract toward me. “And sign this.”

My hand shakes as I take the pen he offers. Our fingers brush, and heat shoots up my arm, pooling low in my belly. His eyes darken, and I know he felt it too—this inexplicable pull between us, dangerous and electric.

I should walk away. No… I should run from this man and his too-generous offer and the way he looks at me like I’m something he wants to take a bite out of.

Instead, I sign my name.

When I finish, he takes the contract and pushes the money toward me. “Welcome to Ashwater Heights, Mirabel McLeod.”

The way he says my name—like he’s committing it to memory, like it’s something he plans to say often—sends another wave of heat through my body. Dear Lord, I need a change of underwear. Because I’m sick. Clearly sick.

I gather the cash with numb fingers, still half-convinced it will vanish like a mirage.

“Thank you,” I say, the words totally inadequate.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he replies, and his smile holds no warmth at all. “You have no idea what you’ve signed up for, Mirabel McLeod.”

As I follow Anfisa out, his words echo in my mind, a warning I’m too desperate to heed.

Because I’ve just made a deal with a man who could destroy me without trying.

And some terrifying part of me wonders if I might let him.

Chapter Ten

Arkady