Page 101 of Obsession

I have no idea why. I can’t really put my finger on it. I don’t know if it’s the predatory look in his eyes, or his take-no-prisoners tone of voice. I don’t know if it’s because he’s basically told everyone who works for him to leave us alone, or because I threw down the gauntlet by the training field. But he has plans for me, and I have no idea what those plans are.

The door shuts behind us, and I let out an audible gasp.

“Why so scared, Violet?” Cain asks, in a tone that tells me he’s fucking pleased with himself.

“You just have that look in your eyes.”

“What look?”

He stalks to his desktop like he’s about to wrestle it to the floor, and when I don’t respond at first, his narrowed gaze cuts to me. I open my mouth, and I’m about to respond, when there’s a sharp knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Cain practically fumes.

“Joe.”

“Come in.” He points to a chair for me to sit in, and I glare right back at him. No, you do not, Mr. Master. He shakes his head at me, his frown promising that we’re going to have a serious talk when Joe’s gone.

The tension in the air must be palpable because Joe freezes mid-step and looks from me to Cain. “Bad timing?”

“No. What is it?” Cain asks. He fires up the laptop.

“Got another call from Robbins.”

“Fucking hell,” Cain mutters to himself. “What now?”

“Wants an update?”

“I’ll give her a fucking update,” I volunteer, but Cain slices a hand in my direction as if telling me to knock it off. The goddamnnerveof him…

“She says it’s been three days, and she wants to know when you’ll have the information.”

“You can tell her, per ourcontract,that I need a week or more before I respond, but that I always try to respond within a week. It’s been three days.”

He grimaces, then nods. “She’s impatient.”

Cain’s eyes narrow. “So am I.”

He’s got that right.

The door finally shuts with a bang when Joe leaves. Cain stands, storms over to the door, then throws the deadbolt.

My heart beats faster.

I let my eyes rove over him for a few seconds, and I don’t breathe while I do. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeved faded tees in a dark gray that brings out the blue-gray storms in his eyes he gets from time to time. It’s tight across his chest and arms, like most clothes designed for normal humans typically are. He’s wearing faded jeans, frayed at the bottom. One might think they’re stylish, but if I know Cain, it’s because it’s one of only a handful of pairs he owns, and he’s owned them for decades.

His heavy, thick boots are planted on the floor, and his hands are on his hips. I sit in his huge, leather desk chair, absolutely dwarfed by it, and nonchalantly plop my feet up on his desk.

I like poking the bear.

He growls low.

“What?”

“Strip.”

I stare at him in surprise, not expecting that command. “Strip?”

“You heard me.” He doesn’t move.

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