Page 27 of Charmingly Obsessed
He turns towards the Spectre, one arm still locked around my waist, the other reaching for the passenger door handle.
And then he stumbles.
Just a slight hesitation, a momentary loss of balance. But it’s there.
He forces a quick, tight smile. And then, his hand, the one not holding me, presses weakly against his left side, just under his ribs.
I swear, my heart stops.
Fear drains the color from my vision. Everything blurs, dulls to shades of gray. Only the deep, turbulent blue of his eyes remains vivid, burning into me.
“Mykola!” I gasp, my voice sharp with terror. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Seems like… nothing,” he says, his voice strained, though his face remains unnervingly calm. His hand continues to press against his side. “Just… something feels off.” He meets my panicked gaze. “Help me.”
My hands fly to his, resisting the urge to probe, to demand answers, to fix it now. “Where?” I ask, my voice sharp, clipped. “Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere,” he says, a strained, unconvincing smile playing on his lips. “But… especially here. Feels like… like something cracked.”
My fingers tremble as I let them drift higher, under his ribs, then cautiously, fearfully, slip beneath the fine fabric of hisblue blazer. Something is definitely wrong. Something smooth. Raised. Oh God…
No. My blood runs cold. I’m going to kill him for this!
I pull out a magnificent, half-opened pink tulip. Its petals are slightly crushed.
Frez gives me a slow, deliberate, devastatingly charming smile. Then he leans in and presses his lips to mine, warm, lingering, tasting of relief and mischief.
On instinct, I shove him away. Hard.
“You… idiot!” I practically shriek, my voice trembling with a volatile mix of terror, relief, and white-hot fury. “You absolute, certifiable, king of all idiots! I nearly— I thought—”
He catches me easily, pulling me back against him, his palm cradling my face, his lips finding the top of my head. Each time I try to squirm away, to put space between my righteous anger and his infuriating charm, he just pulls me closer.
“A completely stupid joke,” I manage, my voice stern, though it’s cracking around the edges.
“Yeah,” he grimaces, nuzzling my temple. “Really overplayed that one. My brain’s not working yet. I was just trying to lighten the mood.”
I sigh, defeated by his relentless proximity.
He starts the Spectre, the electric engine purring to life silently.
I’m used to his careful precision behind the wheel, but I never realized before how intensely he focuses on the road, a stark contrast to the barely leashed chaos he usually radiates. At red lights, though, that focus shifts.
He leans in for quick, fleeting, hungry kisses, each one a jolt of heat against my lips, a reminder of the inferno still smoldering between us. Each time, my hand instinctively finds the sleeve of his blazer, gripping it, searching for balance in the sudden, dizzying onslaught of sensation.
We pull up near the desolate, forgotten edge of Ilyichevsky Park. This side is a wasteland of overgrown weeds, scattered trash, and cracked concrete. The clearing ahead is half-barren, half-poured with rough cement, suspiciously clean. A gangster’s clubhouse, no doubt.
Several sleek, black sedans are already parked near the far entrance to the clearing, their tinted windows reflecting the grey morning sky.
“Don’t stress,” he says, his hand brushing my shoulder, a fleeting touch that lingers like a brand. He looks directly at me, his eyes serious now, all traces of teasing gone. “Stay in the car. It’s fine. But if you feel you need to come out… that’s fine too. Everything was settled yesterday. Kulak is just here as a formal guarantor. A familiar face for them.”
“Mykola,” I say, my voice firm, trying to project a confidence I don’t feel. “Please. Be careful.”
“Deal,” he murmurs, his gaze intense, and for a crazy second, it feels like we’re sealing a pact about something far more significant than a meeting with thugs.
He gets out, crossing the blighted clearing with that same unhurried, casual, impossibly confident stride he always has. As if he’s strolling into a boardroom, not a rendezvous with criminals.
Three more black cars roll silently into the clearing, boxing in the Spectre. Their doors open, and men emerge, surrounding Frez, their faces hard, their postures predatory.
