Page 18 of His Obsession

As Padraig turned to leave, Callum added, “One more thing.”

Padraig paused, glancing back.

“If Deirdre makes another move, I want to know about it immediately,” Callum said, his voice laced with steel. “She’s already crossed too many lines.”

Padraig hesitated, then nodded. “Understood.”

When the door clicked shut, Callum returned to his desk, his hands resting on its solid surface. The tightness in his chest hadn’t eased, but his resolve had solidified.

The coming storm would force his hand, but he wasn’t about to let it destroy everything he’d worked for—or take Isolde from him.

His phone buzzed, the sound cutting through the quiet. He picked it up and saw the message:

I know what you’re doing. You can’t protect her forever, Callum. Eoin doesn’t play by your rules. –D

Callum’s grip tightened on the phone, his fury igniting once more.

“I don’t play by yours or theirs, either,” he muttered to himself, his voice a promise as much as a threat.

The storm outside raged on, but Callum’s mind was already racing ahead. The battle lines were drawn, and he knew one thing for certain.

He would protect Isolde Fitzwilliam. Not just because she was the key to the organization. Not just because she was a pawn in Lynch’s game.

But because she was his. His mate. His fated mate.

7

ISOLDE

The relentless plodding of Walsh’s shoes against the polished floors of the Fitzwilliam Foundation had become a sound Isolde could no longer bear. Every time she turned, there he was—hovering, shadowing her, his presence an unyielding reminder of the danger that had quietly infiltrated her life. Even when he didn’t speak, his watchful gaze said enough:You’re not safe.

She hated it.

More than that, she hated the way Callum Kavanagh’s name seemed to linger in her mind like a whisper in the dark. His note about Eoin Lynch had been a warning, yes, but it had also felt like a claim. The thought ignited something volatile within her—a mix of rebellion and something far more dangerous.

When Walsh stepped out to take a call, she seized her chance. Leaving her phone deliberately on her desk, Isolde slipped out of her office, weaving through the emptying halls of the Foundation’s headquarters. By the time Walsh returned, she would be gone.

The scent of coffee and fresh-baked bread wafted through the air as Isolde stepped into the warm confines of the Fitzwilliam Foundation’s homeless shelter. The building was alive with quiet activity: volunteers moving between tables, clients eating modest dinners, and staff quietly managing the organized chaos. Isolde had always found solace in this place, where the work felt immediate and raw, untainted by the politics and pretenses of her world.

She rolled up her sleeves, tying on an apron as she greeted the familiar faces among the shelter’s staff. “Put me to work, Moira,” she said with a small smile, addressing the shelter’s coordinator, an older woman with a kind face and sharp eyes.

“Always good to see you here, love,” Moira replied. “You can help serve tonight. Full house as usual.”

For hours, Isolde moved between the tables, serving bowls of stew and warm bread, her polite words and soft smiles met with gratitude that tugged at her heart. Many of the faces she saw were the same ones she’d seen on previous visits, etched with the hard lines of life’s relentless trials. She wondered, not for the first time, how different her life might have been if she hadn’t been born a Fitzwilliam. If she hadn’t grown up in a world of privilege, would she have ended up here too, fighting for her next meal?

By the time the shelter began to wind down for the evening, exhaustion had settled in her bones. She helped the staff stack chairs and wipe down tables, the mundane tasks grounding her in a way that the polished sterility of the Foundation’s offices never could.

“Thanks, love,” Moira said as Isolde hefted the last trash bag from the kitchen. “That’s the last of it. I’d walk you out, but?—”

“Don’t worry about me,” Isolde interrupted with a reassuring smile. “I’ve got it.”

She pushed through the heavy metal door at the back of the shelter, stepping into the dimly lit alley. The smell of rain-dampened concrete mingled with the stale scent of garbage. It was a quiet night, the city’s usual clamor muted by the lateness of the hour.

She tossed the bag into the dumpster with a satisfying thud, brushing her hands together to rid them of invisible dirt. For an instant, she stood there, letting the cool air wash over her, a reprieve from the suffocating watchfulness she’d endured all week.

Then she heard it—a faint shuffle, just out of sight.

Her heart leapt into her throat as she turned sharply, her eyes scanning the shadows. “Hello?” she called, her voice steady despite the sudden spike of adrenaline.

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