Page 25 of His Obsession

He didn’t let her finish.

His hands tightened on her face as his mouth came down on hers with bruising force, a punishing kiss that left no room for doubt, no space for argument. It was raw, possessive, and entirely without apology. Her hands rose instinctively to his chest, but she didn’t push him away. Instead, her fingers curled into his shirt, holding on as if the kiss had knocked her world off its axis.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged as he stared into her eyes. “Lock the door,mo chroí,” he murmured, his voice still dark with promise. “And stay put.”

Her wide eyes searched his face as if she was thinking about arguing with him again. But she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Callum stepped back, his gaze lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary before he turned and strode toward the door. He glanced over his shoulder just once.

“Remember what I told you.”

Callum waited just outside Isolde’s door, his ear tuned to the faintclickof the lock sliding into place. For a moment, he remained still, listening. Only when he was certain she’d obeyed him did he turn on his heel and head downstairs, the polished soles of his shoes silent on the hardwood floors.

The Glock felt solid in his hand, the accustomed weight grounding him as his senses sharpened. Whoever had broken in had made a mistake—a fatal one if they thought they could catch him off-guard.

He moved like a wraith, every step deliberate, his gun aimed and ready as he entered the kitchen. Moonlight spilled in through the windows, catching on the shards of broken glass that littered the floor. He frowned, his gaze narrowing on the servants’ entry door that hung slightly ajar, the frame splintered as if someone had forced their way in.

Callum’s gut tightened. No footprints, no sounds—but therewassomething.

A scent.

Floral. Soft and familiar.

His grip on the gun tightened as the realization clicked into place. It was faint, but unmistakable—the same scent of jasmine and rose that Deirdre Lynch used to wear.

Deirdre.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as the implications settled like iron in his chest. She’d been here. But why?

The sound of a sharp inhale made him freeze. Callum turned, his gun still raised, to find Isolde standing just inside the kitchen doorway. Her eyes were wide, flitting from the shards of glass to the weapon in his hand.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snarled, his voice low and edged with frustration. “I told you to stay in your room.”

Isolde’s chin lifted, her stubborn defiance flashing in her gaze. “I’m not about to let you face danger alone, Callum. Don’t waste your breath trying to scare me back upstairs.”

He stared at her, torn between anger and reluctant admiration. Even now, standing barefoot in his kitchen, her dark hair tousled from bed and her expression set in steely resolve, she was a force to be reckoned with.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” he snapped, lowering his gun slightly but keeping his focus on the doorway. “You have no idea what you’re walking into.”

“Then maybe you should stop keeping me in the dark,” she shot back.

Callum clenched his teeth, his patience fraying. “Fine. But you stay behind me. If you don’t do exactly what I say, I’ll tie you to that damn bed upstairs. Understood?”

She glared at him but nodded, instinctively moving closer. “Understood.”

“Good girl,” he muttered, guiding her behind him as he moved through the kitchen.

Isolde’s hand brushed against his back—hesitant, instinctive—as she kept pace with him. The feeling sent a jolt through him, her trust in him both empowering and terrifying. He couldn’t afford distractions. Not when every sense screamed that there were more players on the board.

The penthouse was too quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t feel natural. Callum’s trained ears picked up faint noises—a soft creak, a shift of weight against the floorboards. He counted three… no,fourintruders, spread across the outer rooms.

“Stay close,” he ordered quietly, his voice barely audible.

Isolde didn’t argue. He could feel her trust as she kept a hand on the back of his shirt, her breathing quick and shallow butcontrolled. Callum moved steadily, guiding her toward the office where the panic room was concealed.

“This way,” he murmured.

They slipped inside, and Callum quietly locked the door behind them. The fireplace crackled softly, its glow casting flickering shadows across the leather armchairs and towering shelves of books.

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