Page 34 of King of Obsession

I had to admit he was intriguing.

Despite his golden looks, he had a soul of unruly wildness, the spirit of a brawler.

His hair was tousled like a lion’s mane, framing a strong jawline and piercing eyes. His broad shoulders and muscular frame exuded strength, like a warrior from ancient times.

His presence was majestic and predatory, potent as he prowled through my surroundings with a sense of ownership and dominance.

Like a caged beast, his muscles rippled beneath his skin with each step. His essence was a mix of elegance, danger, and a primal, untamed energy.

It was clear Alessio was a mess of torment and sensuous ardor, his nature hinting at a tortured soul who’d broken the hearts of many.

I wondered what made his heart so black and his expression so ascetic in one moment and sultry in another.

I checked myself, unable to afford to fall prey to the temptations of rescuing a tragic, sensual hero with baggage who needed to be rescued from himself.

Ever so often, I sensed the scorching burn of his gaze, and under the cool, frightening menace was an indistinct emotion.

I tossed onion, garlic, and tiny diced carrots into the sizzling pan.

The aroma of cooking food began to fill the room, but it did little to soothe the tension that knotted between my shoulder blades.

It curled around me, invasive as smoke, as I stirred the stew with mechanical precision, helping to calm my frayed nerves.

He paused by my bookshelf, fingers dragging along thespines of well-thumbed novels and limited-edition hardcovers.

My eyes flicked toward him, watching as he plucked out a paperback and a second and flipped through them, sliding both back into their place, out of order.

I bristled.

My rare editions were my world; anyone who touched my exclusive print editions might get a bullet in their heart.

His wanderlust continued, his shadow dancing across the walls as he paced, a caged animal in a too-tight space. Restless energy personified, he flipped through more spines of books on my shelf.

Next, he riffled through a stack of old postcards I’d collected in another lifetime.

Causing my focus to splinter, undoing my concentration as I chopped vegetables with more force than necessary.

‘Would you just sit still for five minutes?’

The words left my lips sharper than I intended, echoing off the timber surfaces of the cabin.

He raised his eyebrows, adding an almost imperceptible shrug, lifting his wounded shoulder before he winced.

‘Scusa, I’m not very good at being idle,’ he rumbled.

He found my music corner and whistled under his breath.

The gentle strumming of my guitar came next.

One-handed and awkward yet somehow melodic, each note vibrated through the floorboards, up the legs of my chair, and straight into my core.

‘You play?’ I murmured, setting the wooden spoon down with a clatter.

He only glanced over, a slight curve playing on his lips—unruffled,unapologetic.

I raised my brows and turned to the stove, stirring the pot as if the simple action had the power to stir away the irritation inside me.

He knew his way around the strings, albeit in a mangled sense, given his injury.

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