Page 29 of His Obsession

Before she could find her voice, Callum turned away, speaking to the men gathered in the foyer. “Double the security. No one gets in or out unless I say.”

The men nodded, dispersing silently as Callum turned back to her.

“Welcome to your new home,” he said darkly.

And as she stared up at him, it was as if she could feel his words settling over her like chains. Isolde knew instinctively that everything had changed, and nothing would ever be the same again.

Isolde sat stiffly on the leather couch, her hands clasped in her lap, trying—and failing—not to focus on the man pacing in front of her.

Callum hadn’t said much since they entered the mansion, dragging her into this sprawling, fortress-like house. Instead, he’d ushered her to the plush leather sofa, practically forcing her to sit before pulling out his phone.

He was speaking again—his voice a low growl in his native tongue, a language that rolled off his tongue like fine Irish whiskey. Gaelic, she recognized, though she only understood a word here and there.House.Security.Trouble.

The rest was lost to her, but the sharpness in his tone told her enough: he was angry. Dangerous. And so damn sure of himself.

Callum turned sharply, his dark eyes glinting like that of a predator. He wasn’t a man who belonged in soft, warm rooms like this—he was made for battlefields and violence. It was in the way he moved, every step deliberate, controlled, like he could unleash himself at any moment.

“You’re growling,” she said finally, her voice breaking through the quiet of the room.

Callum’s head snapped toward her, his gaze sharp. He wasn’t holding the phone to his ear anymore, but his fingers flexed around it like he wished it were someone’s neck.

“Stay put,” he said, his voice low, as if he hadn’t even heard her observation.

Isolde scowled. “Iamstaying put.”

He resumed pacing without replying, running a hand through his dark hair before dialing another number. Isolde watched as he muttered into the phone again, the sharp edge to his voice making her stomach twist. He switched between English and Gaelic so fluidly it made her dizzy, though his clipped tone in either language left no room for misinterpretation. Whoever was on the other end was getting orders—and they were taking them without argument.

“You’re barking orders,” she muttered under her breath, though she knew he heard her.

Callum didn’t stop pacing. “Because I need them followed.”

“And what about me?” she asked, the bite in her voice bolder than she felt. “You keep throwing me into situations without a single damn explanation, Callum. I deserve to know what’s going on.”

The flicker of something dangerous sparked in his gaze as he turned to face her fully, his shoulders squared, his expression unreadable. “What you deserve,” he said, his voice calm but seething with authority, “is …” he paused and seemed to gather himself… “is to stay alive.”

The way he said it—like it was non-negotiable—made her pulse quicken.

“I don’t need you babysitting me,” she shot back, but her voice lacked the force she wanted.

He growled low in his throat and resumed pacing, muttering something in Gaelic she didn’t catch. She slumped back against the couch in frustration, folding her arms tightly over her chest.

The man was impossible.

Her emotions tangled in knots, looping over themselves until she didn’t know what to feel anymore. Fear, for the faceless men Callum had dragged her away from. Anger, for the way he handled her—like she was something fragile and untrustworthy. But beneath it all was a heat that simmered in her veins, a slow burn she hated herself for feeling.

It wasn’t fair.

She hated that she noticed the way his muscles flexed under the crisp line of his shirt every time he moved. She hated that his voice—so dark, so rough—sent an electric current racing down her spine every time he spoke. She hated that he made her feelsafe,even as she wanted to slap him for treating her like a possession.

He’s a predator,she thought, watching him move.Everything about him screams danger.

The set of his shoulders, the way he prowled from one end of the room to the other—it was all too controlled, like he was holding something dark and primal at bay. His sharp eyes cut to her every few moments, checking to see if she’d moved, and each time she shifted even an inch, he let out that low, irritated growl that made the hair on her arms stand on end.

“Stop growling,” she snapped again, though her voice was softer this time, her pulse betraying her.

He stopped pacing. Just stopped, like his body had turned to stone. The room seemed to still with him as he slowly turned to face her.

“Then stop moving,” he said, his voice quiet, lethal.

---