Page 3 of The Billionaire's Obsession

The entirety of mine and Eliza’s apartment is a tight-knit five-room space, all crammed into a mere 650 square feet. The only thing that separates the rooms is a series of thin walls, each one echoing with the sounds of our lives. Living room, kitchen, bathroom, and two small bedrooms—each corner tells its own story of late-night laughter and whispered secrets. “Thanks,” I reply, tucking my towel into itself with a practiced motion before I head to the freezer. I grab the ice pack, its chilly surface a welcome contrast to the warmth radiating from my hands, and return to the living room. “Now tell me what happened after I left.”

Nicholas is slumped on the couch, his feet casually propped up on the coffee table, and he looks even worse for the wear than he did just a minute ago. “Well, it’s really not much of a story,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, his voice laced with a hint of frustration. “I turned around, and you were gone. Which makes sense, you were covered in beer, after all. So then I turned back around and threw a punch at the idiot who started the whole mess, which, I guess, kicked off a fight. He threw a punch back, then I did, and so on, yadda yadda yadda. And here I am, a little worse for wear but still standing.”

I narrow my eyes at his retelling of the events, sensing there’s more to the story than he’s letting on. “I feel like some parts are missing,” I say, my voice edged with suspicion.

“I was thinking the same thing about your clothes when I showed up,” Nicholas replies, a wide grin stretching across his face, even as he presses the ice pack to his swollen black eye, flinching in pain. The contrast between his playful demeanor and the bruising on his face is almost comical, but I can’t afford to find it amusing right now.

“Shut up,” I snap at him, my irritation bubbling to the surface. “Where’s Eliza?” The question hangs in the air, heavy with concern, as I scan the chaotic scene around us, hoping to catch a glimpse of her familiar figure amidst the remnants of the fight.

Nicholas frowns, his brow furrowing as he gives it some thought. “I’m pretty sure that after the bartender she was flirting with stepped in between the guy and me, she was busy nursing him back to health. He caught an elbow to the cheek, and that was puffing up something fierce. So, I’m going to guess that she went home with him or is planning to go home with him or something along those lines. I really don’t know for sure.”

I can’t help but feel a knot of anxiety in my stomach at the thought. Well, I hope so, because if she brings him back here, that’s going to make things seriously awkward for me, wandering around in nothing but a towel. “Do I need to take you to the emergency room or something?” I ask, gesturing toward his knuckles, which are scraped and bruised. “We should definitely get that cleaned up before it gets worse.”

With a casual shrug, he stands up, wincing slightly as he does so. “I think it’s just broken skin, no broken bones. That fucker had it coming though,” Nicholas growls, his voice low and filled with anger. “He didn’t have any right to do that to you, not ever.” The intensity in his eyes makes it clear just how much he means it, and I can’t help but appreciate his loyalty, even amidst the chaos surrounding us.

His protective spirit wraps around me like a comforting blanket, igniting a warmth deep within. I stand beside him, feeling a surge of gratitude, and guide him down the short hallway to the bathroom, which still holds onto the lingering warmth from my shower, creating a cozy atmosphere that contrasts with the tension outside.

“Sorry for interrupting your night,” Nicholas says, a hint of sheepishness creeping into his voice as he lifts himself onto the counter, settling down with a slight wince. “I just knew that you lived close by, and I wanted to make sure that you were alright. I didn’t mean for you to have to, like, take care of me or anything.” His words tumble out, a mixture of concern and embarrassment, revealing the depths of his character beneath the bravado.

I busy myself with reaching under the sink, carefully rummaging through the cluttered space to gather hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, and a bandage. “It’s okay,” I shrug, trying to convey a sense of reassurance, “it’s not your fault. Jerks like that guy are alwayslooking for someone to pick on. It’s easy to pick on the fat girl; they think it makes them feel stronger or something.” I can’t help but feel a twinge of bitterness as I speak.

Nicholas frowns, a genuine concern etched across his features. “I don’t know why you always call yourself the fat girl,” he says, his voice steady yet tinged with disbelief, as if he’s challenging the very notion I’ve accepted about myself.

With a derisive snort, I seize his hand and bring it over the sink, the cool porcelain contrasting sharply with the heat of the moment. “Probably because I’m fat, Nicholas. I didn’t win the wet t-shirt contest just because I was the skinniest girl there flaunting the biggest fake tits,” I say, the words tumbling out with a mix of sarcasm and self-deprecation.

“The best chest? Absolutely. Best breasts in the contest, hands down,” he counters, a teasing glint in his eyes that somehow softens the sting of my own harsh words.

I feel my cheeks heat up, an uncomfortable flush creeping across my face. Caught off guard and unsure of how to respond, I focus on pouring the hydrogen peroxide over his battered knuckles, the liquid hissing as it meets the blood. His roar of pain fills the air, a raw sound that pulls me back into the moment, reminding me of the reality we’re both facing.

4

NICHOLAS

When the hydrogen peroxide makes contact with my open wounds, the stinging sensation surges through me, igniting a primal fury within. I feel like a beast caught in a trap, and in response, I roar and wrench my paw free from her grasp. “What the fuck, Isabel!” I growl, the words escaping in a mix of anger and disbelief. “I’d rather that man punch me in the face again.”

Her eyes narrow into a fierce glare, and she retorts, “I’ll punch you in the face again then. Just give me back your hand so I can clean off the blood and bandage it properly.”

Despite her being ten years my junior, there’s an undeniable authority in her voice that I find utterly captivating. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen her wear, this commanding air that wraps around her like a cloak. “Could you be a little more sensitive?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm, but there’s a hint of vulnerability beneath it. Tentatively, I push my hand back in her direction, bracing myself for the sting of her ministrations, fully aware that she might hurt me again.

With a cotton ball soaked in peroxide, she carefully dabs at my blood-soaked knuckles, meticulously wiping away the mingled bodily fluids that could belong to either me or that asshole from the bar. “No,” Isabel says, a playful smile dancing across her lips. “You shouldn’t have punched that guy in the first place. What he did was stupid, but I’m going to live. I was already home and showered, see?” She gestures toward her clean hair and fresh clothes, as if to emphasize her point.

“Yes, very clean,” I reply, a grin creeping onto my face. “I have half a mind to get you dirty again, just for your little antics with the peroxide,” I tease her, attempting to lighten the heavy atmosphere that has settled around us.

It works, at least for a moment—she tenses up, surprise flickering in her eyes before she resumes her ministrations on my hand, her focus unwavering. “Nicholas, you can’t say things like that. You’re my stepbrother. Whatever this is between you and me, it can’t happen. You know that and I know that—” Her voice trails off, the weight of her words hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.

This speech sounds like it's been rehearsed a hundred times, and I'm not in the mood to hear it. "Save it, Isabel," I interrupt her. "We may be step-siblings, but that just means we're not bound by blood. There's nothing inherently wrong with what's happening between us, except for a little societal taboo." I set the ice pack I've been using on my eye down on the counter and use my newly freed hand to gently lift her chin, turning her face up so she can meet my gaze. "You're stunning, Isabel. You're funny, you're intelligent, and I can't deny the way my body responds to yours." I let my thumb trace the line of her jaw, marveling at the softness of her skin. "I don't care what society thinks. All I know is that I want you, and I think you want me too."

I see her gulp, the sound echoing in the charged atmosphere. It’s no longer just the heat from the water that’s making this bathroom feel stifling; the tension between Isabel and me has thickened the air around us, making it almost palpable. “I want to see what’s beneath that towel,” I continue, my voice low and earnest. “And I don’t want to hear you call yourself fat anymore, because you’re not.” I jump off the counter, the movement breaking the stillness, and Isabel instinctively steps back, but the bathroom is only so big, leaving her nowhere to escape. She finds herself pressed against the wall, and I take a step forward until I’m solidly against her, our bodies almost touching. “You’re a curvy, beautiful woman,” I insist, my gaze locked onto hers, filled with a mixture of desire and sincerity. “Whether you’re my sister or not, I want to fuck you. I want to make love to you. I want to make you scream my name. Am I clear?” The weight of my words hangs between us, charged with an intensity that feels both exhilarating and terrifying.

Her low-level panting resonates in the small space, a telltale sign that the years of our flirtation, along with her consistent resistance, have merely masked the undeniable pull she feels toward me. “Nicholas, I?—”

“If the words out of your mouth right now aren’t ‘take me’ or ‘I want you, too,’” I say, leaning down to nibble on her earlobe, letting the warmth of my breath linger against her skin, “then I’m not interested in hearing them.” She hesitates, caught in a whirlwind of thoughts, her eyes flickering with uncertainty as I breathe in her fresh, clean scent, an intoxicating mix of shampoo and something distinctly her. Slowly, I kiss my way down her neck, savoring the soft texture of her skin, teasing her collarbone with my tongue, sending shivers through her. This is a pivotal moment; she can choose to push me away if she wants, and yet, this is the farthest I’ve ever penetrated her defenses. But pleaseGod, I hope she doesn’t. The tension between us crackles like static, and I can feel the heat of the moment drawing us closer, urging her to surrender to what we both truly desire.

“Let’s go to my room,” she finally moans after a couple of minutes of me kissing the nape of her neck, her breath hitching with anticipation.

“Lead the way, beautiful,” I grin, my heart racing with excitement. It’s just across the hall, but in the few steps it takes to get there, I make quick work of taking off my suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. She’s only wearing a towel, its fabric barely containing the allure of her curves, but it’s going to take me much longer to get undressed, my fingers trembling with the promise of what’s to come.

“Are we making the right decision?” Isabel asks nervously, her voice barely above a whisper as she turns and takes a seat on the edge of her bed, the tension between us palpable in the air.

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