Page 1 of His Obsession

PROLOGUE

The first light of dawn stretched fingers of pale gold across the hills above Galway, struggling to break through the dense blanket of fog clinging to the land. The air was cool, carrying the scent of North Atlantic Ocean and lush, rich earth. Callum Kavanagh stood just outside the abbey’s walls, his bespoke suit and polished shoes incongruous with the rugged beauty of the Irish countryside.

His dark eyes scanned the horizon. With a deep breath, he removed his clothes, closed his eyes and the shift began.

Mist rolled up from the ground, swirling in vibrant shades of emerald and gold, crackling with tiny forks of lightning. Thunder rumbled low and distant, as if the earth itself recognized the transformation. The mist enveloped him completely, blurring his form until he was little more than a shadow within the swirling tempest. The air seemed to hum with power, the transformation seamless and natural as the mist thickened, pulsed, and then began to dissipate.

When the haze cleared, the man was gone. In his place stood a large, sleek black panther, muscles rippling beneath an obsidian coat that absorbed what little light managed to breakthrough the fog. Callum’s dark eyes gleamed, unblinking, as they surveyed the fields with a predator’s sharp precision.

Without hesitation, he leapt forward, his paws striking the damp earth with soundless grace. The world transformed as he ran, his human responsibilities fading, replaced by the primal thrill of freedom. The fields stretched endlessly before him, a patchwork of green and gold framed by distant, mist-shrouded hills. His powerful limbs propelled him forward, the wind whispering secrets in his ears as he raced through the early morning.

The fog began to lift as the sun grew bolder, revealing the rolling hills in greater detail. Callum slowed to a lope, his eyes scanning the horizon one last time before turning back toward the old abbey, its ancient stone walls rising solemnly above the surrounding countryside.

The moment he reached the abbey’s entrance, the mist returned, swirling once more with color and energy. In the span of a heartbeat, the panther disappeared, and Callum stood in his human form, the dampness of the morning clinging to his frame as he redressed in his tailored clothes.

Rory McMahon was waiting for him at the top of the stone steps that led to the abbey’s entrance, his expression grim.

“Callum,” Rory said, inclining his head in deference. “We’ve got a situation in Dublin. Con needs you there immediately.”

Callum shook his head, the peaceful clarity of his run evaporating. “What’s the issue?”

“Lynch’s crew is moving in on our business there. The Councilman’s stirring up trouble, too—says he’s got evidence that might compromise some of our operations.”

Callum nodded once, his mind already shifting to the countless decisions and calculations ahead. “Inform Darragh to prepare the car. Let the household staff in Dublin know I’ll bestaying until I can take care of whatever needs taking care of. I’ll leave within the hour.”

He turned toward the abbey’s heavy oak doors, his stride steady and strong. The predator was still there, lingering just beneath the surface, ready to strike when needed. For now, the human mask would suffice.

1

ISOLDE

The National Gallery shimmered with opulence, chandeliers casting diamond-like reflections on the polished floors. Gowns of silk and sequins swept across the marble as Dublin’s elite mingled, laughter and the clink of champagne glasses reverberating through the cavernous hall. Isolde Fitzwilliam adjusted the delicate straps of her ivory gown, a picture of composure amidst the chaos of last-minute details.

Her heels clicked purposefully against the stone floor as she slipped through the crowd, her mind occupied with the donor list that had disappeared moments before the auction. The gala’s success hinged on that list, and her father’s trust in her capability to manage the foundation did too. She exhaled, her frustration tempered by the warm notes of vanilla that lingered from her perfume—a small indulgence that always soothed her nerves.

Thinking to take a shortcut from the grand hall to the offices of the museum, Isolde rounded a corner into a dimly lit hallway. There, she froze. The faint metallic tang of blood mingled with the scent of fresh paint. A pair of men were there in the shadows—one on his knees and bleeding and the other standing over him with a gun—their voices low and urgent.

“I told you to pay,” a gravelly voice snarled, venom dripping from every word.

“I just need more time—” the other man stammered, his words cut short by the sharp spit of a gun affixed with a silencer.

Isolde gasped, her hands trembling as she pressed herself against the cool plaster wall. Her heart thundered in her chest, her mind racing with disbelief. A figure crumpled to the floor, lifeless, while the other wiped his gun with calculated precision. The darkness swallowed him whole as he turned, disappearing down the corridor without a second glance.

She took a faltering step forward as if to follow, her silk gown brushing against the ornate molding of the gallery wall but stopped herself. She bent down to remove her shoes and then took a step back towards the entrance to the hall, but her escape was short-lived. A broad, unyielding chest collided with her back, the faint scent of cedarwood and smoke wrapping around her like a snare.

Before she could cry out, a calloused hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her scream.

“Not a word, love,” a deep voice murmured against her ear, low and commanding.

Isolde’s eyes darted upward, catching the faint reflection of her captor in the polished glass of a nearby painting. His eyes glinted with restrained power, framed by a chiseled face that exuded danger and control.

“Let me go,” she hissed, her voice muffled beneath his hand.

“Not until you calm down.” The words were a growl, more predator than man.

Her pulse raced, fear and something darker swirling in her veins. She squirmed against him, the hard press of his body astark contrast to her own trembling limbs. His grip didn’t waver, his strength a silent warning.

“I saw…he—” she stammered, her words halting as his fingers loosened ever so slightly.

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