Page 29 of Charmingly Obsessed
He takes a step forward, his body radiating such a lethal intensity that I don’t manage to grip his hand tighter. Because something about him now… it’s terrifying. Like a thousand volts of pure, unadulterated rage have been channeled directly into him.
He and Kulak exchange a look. Quick. Barely perceptible. A nod.
And then, by the time Kulak is suddenly, inexplicably beside me, Frez has crossed the space separating him from Papa. He’s surrounded by Papa’s men, but he doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t slow.
And with all his strength… he smashes his head directly into Papa’s face.
12
Chapter 12 Diana
Chaos erupts.
Some of Papa’s men surge forward, others instinctively retreat towards their cars.
Kulak, beside me, lets out a weary sigh and tells a couple of his younger, wide-eyed guys to “quit your goddamn bitching and watch the master work,” like this is some kind of educational seminar.
I clap my hands over my mouth, stifling a scream, convinced my own skin is about to slide off my bones from sheer terror.
The fight is brutal, visceral, and shockingly one-sided, at least initially. It’s mostly Frez, a blur of controlled violence, landing blows with devastating precision. He moves like a high-speed, perfectly calibrated machine of destruction. And for some reason, he keeps using his head, ramming it into anyone foolishenough to get within range. It’s barbaric. It’s terrifying. It’s… undeniably effective.
One thug tries to drag Papa out of the fray, but Frez intercepts him, the peacekeeping mission ending with a sickening crunch.
Someone else charges at Frez from the side, but he spins, deflecting the blow, countering with a swift, brutal jab to the ribs that doubles the man over, gasping.
“W-we need to pull him back,” I stammer, turning blindly towards Kulak, but I can’t bring myself to actually look at the mountain of a man beside me. My words are a jumbled, useless mess. This terrifying criminal, this friend of Mykola’s, is just… standing there. Calmly. Like he’s watching a slightly uninspired action movie. I swear he’s also sometimes scrolling through something on his phone. Telegram, maybe? Ordering a hit? Checking sports scores?
“Uh-huh, yeah, we need to,” Kulak finally drawls, tearing his eyes from his screen with exaggerated reluctance, casting a single, sharp glance at the lopsided brawl. “Just… not right this second. Let the guy vent. Pretty sure that’s literally why he came here. Can’t you see? He needed this.”
Needed this? What in God’s name is he talking about?
I can’t spot Papa in the melee anymore. Frez is now screaming at some other beefy guy from Papa’s crew – words I can’t make out over the grunts and thuds – and then he punches him. Hard. The guy stumbles back, then lunges, swinging wildly. And connects. Oh God!
A heavy, suffocating cold seeps into my bones, clouding my vision, making the world tilt. An uncontrollable urge to throw myself into the fight, to protect him, to stop this madness, surges through my veins.
But I just stand there, trembling like a fucking leaf, my mind churning, overheating, grinding uselessly like an engine without oil.
Then Frez takes a headbutt straight to the nose. A sickening crack echoes across the clearing. Blood explodes from his face.
I almost lurch forward, a strangled cry ripping from my throat.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, another goddamn Xena Warrior Princess,” Kulak mutters under his breath, and then his massive hand is on my arm, unceremoniously turning me back towards the car. “Get moving. You can wipe your Romeo’s bloody nose later. Show’s almost over.”
“Aren’t you going to stop them?” I plead, trying to twist out of his grip. “Please! He’s hurt!”
“Yeah, yeah.” He clears his throat, sounding bored again. “Actually, I’m late for a parent-teacher conference for my kid, so sure, let’s wrap this up.” He raises his voice, a booming parade-ground command. “Alright, girls! Playtime’s over! Pack it in!”
At his signal, his younger guys finally wade into the fight. It’s hard to see exactly what’s happening through the tangle of bodies, but then Frez suddenly breaks away from the chaos, staggering slightly, and I stop caring about anything else.
“He’s still riding the adrenaline high,” Kulak observes, scratching his chin thoughtfully with the edge of his phone. “Might want to give him a minute before you try any Florence Nightingale shit. Honestly,” he bellows to the dispersing crowd of bruised and battered thugs, some of whom are now helping a groaning Papa to his feet, “you all should get booked for weddings! You’d make a goddamn fortune!”
Frez’s bloodied face blurs as he stumbles towards me.
The only thing I can see with painful clarity is his darkened gaze, the wild, almost maniacal gleam in his eyes.
And then, like tumblers in a lock finally clicking into place, everything I’ve struggled to understand about him, about us, for the past three years suddenly aligns.
The late-night thoughts, the unanswered questions, the gnawing sense that something fundamental shifted that day.
