Page 20 of Charmingly Obsessed
I resist for a moment, then finally meet his gaze. He looks… wrecked. Upset. The sharp, refined angles of his face seem blurred, softened by concern. There’s no pity, just… raw, unguarded empathy.
“Tonight,” he whispers, his expression deadly serious, “we are going to cry. That’s an executive decision. For as long as it takes.”
“It’s pointless,” I whisper back, shaking my head slightly. “Crying doesn’t fix anything.” But a tiny, genuine smile touches my lips as his nose nudges me again, insistent. It’s a verynicenose. Surprisingly substantial up close.
The last wave of tears comes then, hot and thick, flowing freely now. He pulls my face back against his chest, one hand stroking my wet hair with surprising tenderness, the other reaching up to turn the faucet.
Warm water cascades down, replacing the icy shock. The sudden shift makes me shiver violently, the deep chill in my bones intensifying before the warmth begins to penetrate. Frez kisses my temple again, a fleeting pressure, and my eyes drift closed involuntarily.
He shrugs out of his soaked blazer, letting it drop with a heavy splash at the bottom of the tub. Then he settles us both against the back of the tub, pulling the thin shower curtain closed with a decisive tug, cocooning us in the small, steamy space. As if shielding us from prying eyes that don’t exist.
The waves of warmth feel impossibly good. Weakness overcomes me, and I let my head rest against his solid shoulder. His arm tightens around me.
Through a hazy fog of exhaustion and emotion, I watch as he takes my hands again, turning them over, carefully stroking each finger, his touch gentle, almost reverent. He pointedly avoids lingering on the burn scar.
“I was a complete ass,” he murmurs quickly, his lips brushing against my hair. “Total idiot. All that stuff – the job, the offer… it can wait. None of it matters right now. None of it. We’ll get you dried off, warmed up. Drink some tea. You’ll see. I even know how to operate a kettle.”
“I want to work. Work helps. Distracts. But… I don’t want them to be able to find me. Ever.”
He inhales sharply through his teeth, a harsh, grating sound.
His hand tightens on mine, almost painfully, then instantly gentles. He shifts, pulling me slightly away so he can look into my eyes.
“You have to trust me, Diana. Let me handle this. Let me fix this. Or I won’t be able to…”
“Fix what?” I whisper, lost in the intensity of his gaze.
“Where do I even start?” he sighs, a hand coming up to push damp strands of hair from my forehead. “I… I need you to think well of me, Diana. Or at least… stop looking for the angle. Stop assuming the worst.”
“I do think well of you,” I manage, a nervous tremor in my voice. He doesn’t smile. He just watches me.
“Now’s not the time to get into it.” He squeezes my hand again, pulling me back against his side.
And maybe, just maybe, that make-believe fort from childhood – the one where you believed nothing bad could touch you – maybe it actually exists. And maybe, right now, I’m inside it. Huddled against the storm. With him.
9
Chapter 9 Diana
The warm water sluices over us, a stark contrast to the icy shock therapy moments before.
Mykola holds me securely against his side, a solid wall of warmth in the small, steamy enclosure of the tub.
He pulls away just enough to look into my face, his thumb gently stroking my cheekbone, wiping away residual moisture.
We talk. About trivial things, at first. Filling the loaded silence that hangs heavy between the lingering terror and the fragile truce. He tells me he flew straight from Dubai, ditching a sovereign wealth fund meeting, just to intercept me at the office yesterday. Just to stop me from leaving. The sheer focused intensity of it steals my breath.
“If I’d known those pastries were waiting, I would’ve commandeered a fighter jet to fly faster.”
A watery smile touches my lips. “They were average, really. My raisin muffins… those are the real showstoppers.”
“Nonsense.” He scoffs softly, tightening his arm around me. “I practically mainlined enough sugar back there to induce diabetic shock, and you call them ‘average.’ You wound me, Diana.”
The fragile normalcy shatters as the words tumble out before I can stop them. “My sister… she had a hard life. They forced her into addiction.”
His fingers, tracing patterns on my arm, still. They’re surprisingly rough, calloused in places, a stark contrast to the unexpected tenderness of his touch now. He hesitates, processing. “Addiction… it’s a beast,” he says finally, his voice quiet, serious. “It wasn’t her fault, Diana. She wouldn’t have wanted to hurt you.”
“You’re right,” I whisper, meeting his gaze, finding only somber understanding there. No judgment. Just… acceptance.
