Page 23 of His Obsession

Each morning, he dropped Isolde at her office, leaving Walsh to stand guard. Callum knew Walsh wasn’t pleased about the arrangement, but the man was too pragmatic to argue. Each night, Callum picked her up and brought her back to the penthouse, their conversations becoming less combative as the days wore on.

Over late dinners and quiet moments, Callum began to see glimpses of the woman beneath the armor. She was sharp and fiery, but also thoughtful and vulnerable in ways she tried tohide. She challenged him at every turn, but each argument—each spark—only drew him deeper.

And he knew she felt it, too.

The way her breath became ragged when he stood too close. The way her eyes lingered on his hands. The way her sharp retorts faltered when his voice dropped to a murmur.

She was fighting it, but the battle was hers to lose.

On the fourth morning, after escorting Isolde up to her office, Callum returned to the lobby, his usual guarded silence broken by the sight of James Fitzwilliam waiting near the entrance.

“Kavanagh,” Fitzwilliam said, his voice carrying that aristocratic disdain Callum had little patience for. “What the hell do you think you’re doing with my daughter?”

Callum didn’t slow his pace, his tone cold as he replied, “Protecting her.”

Fitzwilliam’s face turned red. “I don’t need men like you protecting my family. I don’t need youanywhere nearmy family.”

Callum stopped, turning to face him fully. His expression was unreadable, his dark gaze cutting. “With all due respect, Fitzwilliam, your daughter is in danger.”

“What kind of danger?”

“The kind that could get her killed. Walsh might be fine for here in your building, but he’s out of his league outside these doors. And before you get all high and mighty with me, I’ll remind you that your family has been well-served by its association with the O’Neill Syndicate. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Fitzwilliam’s mouth opened and closed, his rage obvious.

Callum smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You don’t like me. I get that; I don’t care. What I do care about is Isolde. Her life is in danger, and I’m the only one keeping her alive. So, unless you plan to do better, stay out of my way.”

Fitzwilliam glared at him, but the man had no retort. Callum turned on his heel and walked out of the building without another word.

In the reflection of the glass doors, he caught a glimpse of Isolde watching him—her expression a complicated mix of emotions he couldn’t name.

He smiled faintly to himself.

She might not trust him yet, but she would… whether she liked it or not.

That evening after picking her up, the glow of the city bled into the penthouse as evening settled, the golden lights of Dublin shimmering like ghosts against the glass walls. Callum stood at the bar, pouring himself a measure of whiskey, the liquid catching the fire’s flicker from the hearth across the room. The day had been long, and his patience—already stretched thin—was beginning to unravel.

Isolde sat curled in the corner of the couch, a throw blanket tucked loosely over her lap. She was watching him, her amber eyes sharp despite the fatigue on her face.

“You’re quiet,” she said, breaking the silence.

Callum turned slightly, glass in hand, and raised an eyebrow. “Should I be putting on a show?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She uncrossed her legs, sitting up straighter as her expression hardened. “I saw you talking to my father today.”

Callum stilled, the glass halfway to his lips. He took a deliberate sip, letting the warmth burn down his throat before answering. “And?”

“And I want to know what he wanted.”

He shrugged, leaning one hand on the back of an armchair as he watched her. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Isolde stood abruptly, the blanket falling forgotten to the couch as she stalked toward him. “You can’t keep me locked in this gilded cage and expect me to just accept everything you do, Callum. I have a right to know why my father approached you.”

Her fire both infuriated and intrigued him. Callum’s gaze tracked her movements, taking in the rigidity of her body as she stood, the way she wrung her hands in front of her as she paced. She was angry—good. Anger was energy, focus. But it also made her careless, and he couldn’t afford that right now.

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