Page 10 of Dark Obsession

He doesn’t flinch. “No, Elena. Youthinkyou deserve to know. I’m sorry you got caught up in this, but it’s not your concern.”

My fists clench, fury building inside me. “Of course it’s my concern. This is Bratva business, and I’m Bratva.”

He shakes his head, jaw set. “We’re done discussing this. Conversation over.”

My face burns. I stare out the window, biting back the urge to scream.

Instead, I cross my arms and bite out, “So you’re just cutting me out now? Leaving me in the dark while you handle everything?”

He doesn’t even blink. “It’s better this way,” he says, his voice infuriatingly calm. “Your place is behind a computer, not shaking down goons for information.”

“Oh, so now you think you know better where I belong?” I snap, my temper flaring hotter. “You always think you know best, don’t you?”

He glances at me briefly. “In this case, yeah, I do. You’re not cut out for this. When we get to the mansion, allow yourself to recover, then put it out of your head.”

“Go fuck yourself,” I snarl, my hand twitching with the urge to slap him again, harder this time. He’s so dismissive, like I’m a child he’s tucking into bed, not the woman he just screwed senseless. It makes me feel discarded. But before I can say anything more, we arrive at the estate, the massive wrought-iron gate opening, the armed guards letting us in with nothing more than a nod.

“Be safe,” he says as he puts the car in park, his voice cool and detached.

“Fuck you,” I spit once more, yanking open the door and slamming it behind me without another word. I storm toward the mansion, my heels digging into the gravel path as the weight of everything that just happened crashes down on me—the gunfire, death tapping on my shoulder, Grigori’s mysterious interaction with the assassin, the sex—and now, this dismissal.

Inside the mansion, everything is quiet, too quiet. It feels suffocating. I rush upstairs to one of the bedrooms and shut the door behind me, pressing my back against it in a silent wish to shut out the whole damn world. After a few seconds, I collapse onto the bed, my face buried in the pillow.

Tears well up in my eyes but I fight them back. I hate that I’m crying, hate that I still want him, even after how he just treated me.

I can’t let myself fall apart. Not over this. Not over him. I toughen up, forcing the tears away. As much as I’m pissed at Grigori, I still care for him.

And whether he likes it or not, I’m going to find a way to help him.

Chapter 5

Grigori

“Don’t stop, Grigori…”

Flashes of last night burn through my mind—the way Elena writhed beneath me in pleasure, her body clenching around my cock as I drove into her over and over.The sight of her coming, eyes rolling back, lips parted in a moan that sounded like my name. Fuck. The memory makes my blood run hot, and for a moment, I almost lose myself in it.

A blaring car horn snaps me back to the present.

I blink, gripping the steering wheel hard, jaw clenched. It's a rainy, miserable morning in Chicago, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. The windshield wipers lazily drag across the glass, fighting a losing battle against the drizzle.

I’m parked outside a CPD precinct, and I fucking loathe being here. Dealing with cops is never my idea of a good time, but I need answers. And if we’re paying these bastards, I might as well use them.

I shove the car door open, ducking my head against the rain as I make my way inside. The lobby smells like stale coffee anddesperation, and I hate every second of it.

Approaching the front desk, I give the desk sergeant a nod. Her eyes widen with recognition—she knows exactly who I am, or more importantly, who I work for.

"I'll get Detective Barnes right away," she says. Good. They know not to waste my time.

"Thanks.”

I glance around the precinct. It’s a place crawling with beat cops, plainclothes detectives, and plenty of low-level scum getting processed. Some of the uniforms give me a quick glance, but nobody dares to say a word. I’m not the kind of criminal they lock up. I’m the kind they work for, whether they like it or not.

It’s a reminder of the hierarchy here, and I’m at the top of it.

A few of the newer guys try to avoid eye contact, probably sensing the weight of my presence, but I catch a few of the older officers giving me the quick, knowing nod. They’ve seen enough to know how this works. I’m not the guy they hassle. I’m the guy they pretend doesn’t exist until I need something.

It doesn’t take long before Detective Barnes shows up. Mid-forties, balding, with a gut that suggests more takeout than patrols, but he’s competent enough. His whole demeanor shifts when he sees me—eyes widening, posture straightening. Obedient, as always, with just the right amount of fear in his eyes.

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