Page 58 of King of Obsession

The sun was starting to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, lengthening the shadows across the garden.

I sat back on my heels and surveyed my handiwork. It looked tidier, the plants standing tall and green, free from the choking embrace of weeds.

Satisfaction thrummed through me, the profound pleasure of hard work yielding tangible results.

I paused, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.

I was aware I should return to the cabin, check on Alessio, and prepare dinner.

But a part of me hesitated, reluctant to face him again so soon after our earlier encounter. His words echoed in my mind.

The sincerity in his eyes and how he appeared to see straightthrough my soul’s high walls terrified me.

He had a way of stirring up emotions I’d thought long buried, the way he made me want things I couldn’t have.

With a sigh, I gathered my tools and headed back towards the cabin, steeling myself for whatever lay ahead.

I had to remember who I was and what I’d been through. I had to stay strong, no matter how much my heart might yearn for something more.

He was awake when I got inside.

This time, his shoulder was free of its brace, wrapped in a bandage.

He was seated on my couch, devastating and handsome, as he strummed the guitar once more.

Wordlessly, his eyes raked over me and my dirt-streaked face and overalls.

I tilted my head. ‘Hey.’

He jerked his chin, eyes dark, distant.

I set down my basket of fresh-picked vegetables on the kitchen counter.

Keep it together, I reminded myself, taking a steadying breath.Don’t let him get under your fuckin’ skin.

I headed to the sink and washed my hands, gathering my ingredients for dinner.

Yet I kept stealing glances at him.

He sensed my sneaky peeks and glanced up, lips curled.

‘You know, if you took a picture, it would last longer,’ he growled.

Under the flaming golden gaze was an unnerving heat. He appeared to see right through me.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t quite suppress the twitch of my mouth. ‘Don’t flatter yourself, rockstar. Just checking youweren’t about to keel over from all the hard work.’

He scoffed and set the guitar aside, standing up with a wince. ‘Your concern is touching, cara. But I assure you, I’m made of tougher stuff than that.’

I huffed and sliced my eyes from him as he sauntered to the kitchen, peering over my shoulder at the ingredients I was assembling.

He jerked his chin in question.

I was beginning to understand his language, his silent, gruff style of communicating.

I shrugged. ‘It’s a Moroccan chicken pie.’

‘From scratch dough?’

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