Page 8 of Savage Obsession

“Sure,” I point her in the direction.

She takes about five minutes and steps out, her body wrapped in a fluffy towel.

“A woman who doesn’t take the whole day in the bathroom?”

“That’s because my self-care products are not here.” She laughs.

“I can have them ordered and brought here in no time.” I offer, making my way to the bathroom.”

“I’m sure you can.”

As I step into the bathroom and prepare for a shower, my mind races with the possibility of asking her to stay with me the whole weekend. I'm sure we haven't finished exploring each other.

“You will spend the weekend with me…” I begin, drying off my body, but she is already gone, leaving me alone in the dimly lit room.

I stand rooted to one spot, feeling dazed, as I realize the magnitude of what had just transpired. I had just experienced the most incredible night of passion with a woman who had captivated me in ways only one woman had. But now, she is gone, leaving me with a hunger that only she could satisfy.

Finding her will be easy, especially with my resources and connections. But something is holding me back. Perhaps it is the realization that I am a fucking asshole who has nothing good to offer her.

My mistress Bella is home waiting for me. Come tomorrow, I will start the negotiation to procure my bride, yet here I am, wanting to bury my cock in the warmth of a pussy that I have no business fucking.

4

Aithan

I wake to an empty bed, the cool sheets beside me a stark reminder that she’s gone. My eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the hotel curtains, and for a moment, I stay still, allowing the surrounding quietness to seep in. The faint scent of her lingers on the pillow—a subtle mix of vanilla and something unidentifiable but intoxicating. Without thinking, I reach for it, bringing it to my face. Her scent is like a ghost, haunting me with the memory of her warmth, her sharp wit, and the fire in her eyes.

I toss the pillow aside, disgusted with myself for feeling… what? Longing? For a woman whose name I know is fake? I’ve had my share of women, but none has left me like this—disoriented, frustrated, and worse, wanting for more.

“Get it together,” I mutter, throwing the covers off and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. The moment my feet hit the floor, I push the thought of her out of my mind. I have more pressing matters to deal with than chasing ghosts.

The sharp sting of cold water splashes across my face as I stand at the bathroom sink. The mirror reflects a man carved from stone, though the faint shadows under my eyes hint at a restless night. I dry my face with a towel and drop to the floor. With palms flat against the hardwood, I begin my usual morning fifty push-ups. It’s a ritual—a way to ground myself and sharpen my mind at the start of every day.

By the time I hit fifty, my breathing is steady, my focus sharpened. I stand, rolling my shoulders and shaking off the last remnants of the maddening night i just had. The woman was a diversion, nothing more. My life doesn’t allow for distractions, no matter how tempting.

The hot water beats against my skin as I stand under the shower, letting the steam fill the bathroom. It’s cleansing, not just physically but mentally. The heat relaxes my muscles, and the rhythm of the water drowns out my thoughts. I’m meticulous, scrubbing every inch of my body with precision, as if washing away not just the night but the nagging emotions that cling to me like a second skin.

As the water cascades down my chest and arms, I’m reminded of the discipline that built me. My body is a weapon, honed through years of relentless training and forged in the fires of necessity. This isn’t vanity; it’s survival. And survival demands control.

I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist, moving to the closet where my suit hangs, pressed and perfect. The black fabric gleams under the soft lighting, a testament to my need for order. I dress methodically, starting with the crisp white shirt, the tailored jacket sliding over my shoulders like armor. Each piece fits flawlessly, projecting power and precision. TheElliniki’sfuture godfather doesn’t leave room for imperfections—not in appearance, not in actions.

I adjust my cufflinks and glance at my reflection. I see the man I’ve become: cold, composed, untouchable. And that’s exactly how it needs to be.

My phone vibrates on the dresser, pulling me from my thoughts. I pick it up and fire off a quick message to Leon, my cousin and right-hand man.

Meet me in the foyer in twenty minutes.

Leon doesn’t need lengthy instructions or explanations. He knows how I operate—efficiently, without unnecessary dialogue. My trust in him is unwavering, but that doesn’t mean I relinquish control. Some things demand a personal touch, and today’s agenda is one of them.

The ride to the wedding is quiet at first, the soft hum of the engine filling the space. Leon sits beside me, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to my calculated presence. He’s steady, reliable, and the calm to my storm.

“You seem distracted,” he says, breaking the silence.

“I’m not,” I reply curtly, my gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Leon doesn’t press, though his knowing smirk suggests he doesn’t believe me. He’s been by my side long enough to read between the lines, and he’s also wise enough to know when to let it go.

My phone buzzes, cutting through the quiet. I glance at the screen—a call from the dockmaster. I answer immediately, my tone sharp. “What is it?”

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