Page 21 of Charmingly Obsessed
“She was older than you, right?”
I nod quickly against his shoulder. Here, cocooned in this strange, steamy fort, he presses soft, random kisses into my damp hair. Quick butterfly touches, then lingering pressure. I keep my eyes closed, absorbing the unexpected comfort, afraid to break the spell.
“She took care of you? And now I…” He stops himself, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He clears his throat.
Yes. Anya always took care of me. Loved me fiercely, protectively. And that love is why I can’t risk anything. Why I have to survive, disappear. Or everything she endured, everything she was, will be for nothing.
“My parents died in the mountains,” Mykola says suddenly, his voice flat, detached.
“Together?” I exhale, surprised by the abrupt shift, the offered vulnerability.
“Yes.” He nods. “Avalanche. Happened a long time ago. I was almost finished with school. Practically grown.”
“Finishing school isn’t grown,” I argue softly, instinctively pushing back against the minimization of his pain.
He nods again, evasively this time. Then a harsh, disbelieving laugh rips from his chest. It’s a dark, ugly sound. “That’s a lie, of course.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead against the bridge of my nose, his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. His confession comes out in a ragged whisper against my lips. “Car crash. My mother… she was drinking. Heavily. She killed them both. My father… he adored her. Worshiped the ground she walked on, even when she was destroying herself. No surprise he went with her.” He pulls back slightly, his eyes meeting mine, haunted. “I take after them both.”
The last sentence hangs there, heavy and chilling. I don’t know what to say. “You knew? Back then? About her drinking?”
“Yes.”
He leans in, pressing a quick, light kiss to my cheek, a fleeting moment of tenderness before the walls slam back into place.
He turns off the faucet, the sudden silence amplifying the drip of water from our clothes. He finds a towel – thick, fluffy, probably Anya’s best – and wraps it around my shoulders before reaching for one himself.
“I’ll find you something dry,” I mumble, starting to shiver as the air hits my wet skin. “Sorry, it’ll just be whatever I can find…”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, his voice serious, his gaze fixed on me as I fumble with the towel.
And then, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, he reaches down and pulls his soaked shirt off over his head.
Water sluices down tanned skin stretched taut over hard muscle. Broad shoulders, defined pecs, the lean lines of his waist… My breath catches. It’s too much. Too intimate. Too… male.
I bolt.
Scrambling out of the tub, dripping water everywhere, not even bothering to wring out my sodden trousers.
I flee the small, steamy bathroom and the sight of Mykola Frez, gloriously, devastatingly half-naked. This man has assistants to pick out gifts. This raw, vulnerable, dangerously physical version of him is someone entirely new. Someone my carefully constructed defenses have no protocol for.
By the time I emerge from my bedroom, wrapped in a thick robe, my hair turbaned in another towel, he’s already in the kitchen.
He’s put the kettle on. He’s found the remaining pastries and is eating one, leaning against the counter, chewing with an absentminded focus that’s somehow utterly captivating. The sheer casualness jars against the backdrop of high-stakes threats and emotional meltdowns.
The ripped pieces of his obscene offer card are still scattered on the countertop.
“I’m sorry. For accusing you. About the offer. That was… unwarranted.”
He turns, popping the last bite of pastry into his mouth. He watches me as he chews, then swallows. “You apologize a lot,sonechko,” he remarks, pushing away from the counter to make tea for me, coffee for himself. His movements are economical, precise. “And your defense mechanisms are Fort Knox level.” A faint smirk touches his lips. “But that’s okay. Any defense can be cracked eventually. I happen to enjoy a challenge,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
“You apologize a lot too!” The retort slips out, sharper than intended.
He pauses, coffee mug halfway to his lips, raising a surprised eyebrow. “Oh?” A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face. He sets the mugs down and deliberately sits at the small kitchentable, patting the chair beside him. Far too close. “So, the Ice Queen does have a backbone under all that frost.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “No! It’s just… the better I get to know someone, the more… freely I speak.” And apparently, near-death experiences and shared showers accelerate that process.
He studies me for a long, unnerving moment, his expression unreadable. “That’s a good thing, Diana. And it’s smart to be wary. People usually give you a reason to be.”
“So, what’s your catch?” The question is out before I can censor it.
