Page 46 of His Obsession

“Good. Then I love you, too.”

He chuckled but remained inside her long after he’d come, as though he were reluctant to leave her.

The warm sun bathed the garden in a golden glow, the light catching on the dew still clinging to the velvety petals of her mother’s roses. Isolde stood in the shadow of the trellis, her back pressed to Callum’s chest, the solid warmth of him grounding her as the heady scent of flowers wrapped around them. His heartbeat, steady and strong, thudded against her back, matching the slow, measured breath she took to calm her nerves.

From their vantage point, she could see her father standing near the fountain, his familiar silhouette a stark reminder of the life she once led. James Fitzwilliam’s hand was outstretched, clasping that of Conchobar O’Neill in a gesture that was both solemn and symbolic. The reunion of their families under a new arrangement marked the end of decades of fear and animosity and the beginning of something entirely new.

“Are you certain about this?” Callum’s deep voice rumbled against her ear, his arms tightening slightly around her waist. His breath tickled her skin, and despite everything they’d endured, a faint smile tugged at her lips.

“It’s too late to turn back now,” she replied softly, her gaze fixed on the men in the distance. “Besides, I think we both know this is the right thing—for the foundation, for Dublin… for us.”

Callum hummed low in his throat, the sound a mix of agreement and possessiveness. “You’ve changed,mo chroí.”

She tilted her head to look up at him, her amber eyes catching the sunlight as she studied his sharp features. “Of course I have. I’m a shifter now. But you’ve changed, as well.”

A faint smirk curved his lips. “Not much.”

Isolde arched a brow, her tone teasing despite the truth woven into her words. “Oh, no? The man who couldn’t let anyone close now stands here, his hands wrapped around a woman who’s turned his world upside down.”

Callum chuckled, the sound rich and full of something she couldn’t quite name. “Upside down, indeed.”

The past month had been a whirlwind—a chaotic dance of survival and transformation. Bradford’s arrest had unraveled a web of corruption that stretched further than anyone had imagined, his downfall punctuated by the revelation of his alliance with Lynch. Eoin’s death at Deirdre’s hands had been a turning point, a moment that underscored just how far they were all willing to go to protect what mattered.

And then there was Isolde herself. She had shed the skin of the naive socialite she once was, embracing the survivor within—and, more recently, the shifter. Her new reality, marked by her first hesitant transformation and the raw power that came with it, had reshaped her in ways she was still coming to terms with. She had fought tooth and claw—both figuratively and literally—to emerge stronger than ever.

“Siobhan’s still out there,” she murmured, her gaze flickering to the distant horizon. “Gone without a trace. Padraig says her assets have been liquidated, and her trail has gone cold. Why would she go? Do you think she’ll come back?”

Callum’s lips brushed her temple, a gesture as protective as it was tender. “It’s unusual for a she-cat to be out on her own. She obviously wanted to keep her secrets. She could have kept them from the human world but keeping it from those in the shifter community would have been impossible. But don’t worry, we’ll keep looking for her. Con’s trying to figure out who she is and which clan she came from. If she needs us, we’ll be there for her. But for now, we need to focus on other things.”

Her concern rested firmly in the present, where her father and Con were sealing an agreement that would merge the Fitzwilliam Foundation and the O’Neill Syndicate’s influence into something entirely unique. The foundation would continue to operate cleanly, its charitable work untouched by the darker dealings that had once shadowed her father’s past. But it would also be protected—by Callum, by her, by the family they had forged in blood and fire.

She shifted slightly, the sunlight catching on the diamond ring now gracing her finger. It sparkled like a beacon, a symbol of the bond she and Callum had forged through their dangerous obsession with one another. It wasn’t just love—it was something deeper, something unbreakable.

His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer as he followed her gaze to her father. “He looks content.”

“He is,” Isolde said softly. “I think he just wanted peace and wasn’t sure how to get it.”

“He should have trusted Con.” Callum’s lips quirked. “And you?”

She turned in his arms, her hands sliding up to rest against his chest. The intensity in his eyes burned into hers, dark andconsuming, but there was something else there now—a softness, a vulnerability he reserved only for her.

“I never thought I’d find peace in someone like you,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “But here we are.”

He leaned down, his forehead brushing hers. “You’re mine, Isolde Fitzwilliam,” he said, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine. “And I’ll burn the world down to keep you safe.”

She smiled, her fingers curling into his shirt. “Let’s not burn it just yet. We have a wedding to plan.”

The sun cast the garden in hues of amber and rose, Isolde leaned into Callum’s embrace, her heart steady and sure. Whatever lay ahead—danger, intrigue, power, love—they would face it together.

And together, they would shape their world into something worthy of the obsession that had brought them here.

The sun dipped low over Galway Bay, casting the abbey in hues of amber and crimson as the evening breeze swept across the hills. The ancient stone ruins stood sentinel on the cliffside, a place steeped in history and whispers of old magic. Isolde stood at the edge of the cliff, the wind teasing the loose strands of her dark chestnut hair as she stared out over the expanse of water and jagged rocks below.

Callum moved behind her. She could feel his presence even before she felt his hands settle on her hips. His touch was firm, possessive, and it sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cool air.

“You’re restless,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying just enough of his Irish lilt to make her stomach twist in that way it always did.

Isolde glanced over her shoulder at him, her lips quirking in a faint smile. “So are you.”

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