Page 31 of King of Obsession

When I’d ticked all the items on my list, I pulled my jacket close and hopped into the truck’s cabin.

It was getting to mid-winter, and the chill that fell from about 3 p.m. was setting in.

I drove fast, unwilling to have darkness fall while I was stillon my way home.

I got to the cabin just as the last light sank behind the hills and slowed at the sight of the reflection off the turbines during sunset.

It was stunning.

Serenaded by the distant whoosh of the windmill blades, which sometimes sounded like the ocean, I eased the ute back into the shed, locked it up, and went inside.

A glance into the bedroom told me that Alessio was still asleep.

I sighed in relief, not quite ready to deal with all of him.

Making as little racket as possible, I set the supplies on my kitchen table.

All I wanted to do was finish my chores for the day, stoke the fire, and prep a light dinner.

If my guest slept through the night, I planned to enjoy my meal with a glass of wine, feet toasty under a blanket on my cherished chaise lounge, reading the next installment in my favorite thriller series.

I’d just placed the crusty loaf of bread I’d baked before on the cutting board when I caught a slight noise.

Without warning, I was lifted and thrown against a wall of hard, solid muscle to my rear.

A hand went over my airways, and another twisted one hand behind my back,

I struggled, kicked, and writhed; I tried to pry his hand away from my mouth and nose, to no avail.

The grip on me was too firm.

I recalled the size of this man and the sheer menace I’d tagged on him when I first spotted him.

He’d overpowered me, and I realized it’d be pointless tofight him.

So I sagged against him in submission.

‘Alessio, it’s Cleo,’ I croaked, my voice muted under the pressure of his hand.

He hesitated, withdrew his hand from my face, and released me.

I spun around, putting my hands up in mock surrender.

‘Calibrese, why do we keep meeting this way?’ I said with a biting edge.

That’s when I noted his eyes were reddened, hot, and dilated.

He pulsed with heat.

Damn, he had a fever which was most likely scrambling his senses.

‘Fotto,’ he breathed, reaching to clutch the back of my sofa.

‘Park yourself on the couch,’ I urged. ‘I’ve got your meds. Let’s start with something to bring down that temperature.’

He nodded his head, and I tagged the tension in his body. ‘I feel like shit.’

I assented, feeling a momentary compassion for him. ‘All good. I’ll get you some water to drink. Sit.’

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