Page 32 of Charmingly Obsessed
And there’s no way out of this box. No escape.
For as long as I can remember, I knew I’d have a family. A wife. Maybe kids, maybe just us. But together. Always. An anchor. A constant. Like my parents, before… before everything went to hell.
I’ve always found those cynical, “manly” proclamations about love being a fantasy, a weakness, utterly exhausting. Sappy romance? The sacred bond between two people? What the fuck could be more meaningful, more exhilarating, more fundamentally human than finding that one person you want to navigate this chaotic world with? Forever.
Cynicism is for the weak. The dull. The pathetic.
I knew I’d have a wedding. Three hundred guests, maybe more. And when I lifted her veil, my heart would pound out a single, desperate plea: Never let go. Never let this end. Never forget this moment.
I knew I’d meet her. Maybe not immediately, but soon enough, I’d know. The click. The recognition.
All my past relationships fizzled out around the seventh or eighth date. Sometimes I slept with them, driven by a detached curiosity, a need to be certain. Sometimes, it was obvious long before that. They were wonderful women – smart, charming, beautiful. Women, in general, are far too good for this fucked-up world. Letting them go was never difficult. They deserved happiness, real happiness, not the lukewarm placeholder I could offer.
Sometimes, I’d wonder what she would be like. My one. Like some ridiculous fairy tale, a single perfect flower stretching towards the sun, waiting just for me. And one day, I’d find her. Drift in like a breeze and recognize her instantly.
Guessing was the hardest part. I wasn’t drawn to a specific “type.” I liked them all. Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Tall, petite. Quiet, boisterous. Seriously, what’s not to like about women? They’re magic.
“…Mykola?” Diana’s voice, soft and hesitant, pulls me back from the precipice of memory. Back to the here and now. Back to her, dabbing at my face with that damn towel. “Are you sure the bone’s okay? It looks… swollen.”
My nose is fine. Probably. A little broken, maybe. I almost wish it were worse. A real injury. Something that would require… extended care. Weeks of her fussing over me. Maybe then the chaos raging inside my head, this relentless, grinding obsession, would finally find a tangible focus, settle down, give me a moment’s fucking peace.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” I try to smile. It probably looks like a grimace. She frowns, her brow furrowing in that adorable way that makes me want to kiss the worry lines smooth.
I probably have “DESPERATE FOOL” tattooed across my forehead in flashing neon letters. It’s always been my curse. I feel too much, too intensely. And it all spills out.
Not like Diana. Diana, who accounts for everything. Organizes, structures, plans. Precise. Contained. No wonder she thinks I’m a fucking clown. A buffoon who crashed into her life and set it on fire. Well, clown isn’t the worst option, I guess. Better than being the cruel, unhinged bastard I actually was that day. The one who hurt her. Savagely. Unbearably.
“You think… you think they won’t come after you again?” she asks, her voice small, laced with a fear that’s all for me.
I watch the delicate, almost translucent skin of her wrist, the way her other hand presses awkwardly, protectively, against her chest, right over her heart. I don’t know. I don’t think. I just watch her. Drink her in.
Then, I force myself to meet her eyes again. And again, just watching. Not thinking. Just feeling this raw, consuming need.
“There’s nothing to avenge,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “A fight’s a fight. It’s over.” For them, anyway. For me… this is just another battle in a war I’ve been losing for three years.
Aren’t bruised, heroic noses supposed to be kissed when they’re being tended to by beautiful, concerned women? Isn’t that in the script somewhere?
I don’t feel ashamed, not anymore. Not for wanting her this badly. Not for reaching out like a beggar, desperate for any crumb of her attention, her touch. That time, the time for pride and pretense, ran out two and a half years ago. The clock stopped.
I just want to survive this.
When the homeless guy on the corner asks for spare change, he’s just trying to survive too. We’re not so different, him and me. Both desperate. Both broken in our own ways.
“It hurts right here,” I murmur, my palm brushing against my cheekbone, deliberately pointing to a spot inches from my lips. My fingers find hers, light and warm against my skin. I don’t look away from her eyes. Those incredible, mesmerizingblue-gray eyes, now threaded with faint veins of malachite green that, in the right light, would probably shimmer gold.
My phone rings. A shrill, obnoxious intrusion. And since it’s not vibrating, set to my usual discreet corporate drone mode, that means it’s Larrington. Fuck.
Diana startles at the sound, nearly dropping the towel. She brushes her lips against mine, a fleeting, accidental touch that sends a jolt straight to my groin, before pulling back, her eyes wide.
“Don’t answer it,” I murmur, my fingers tangling in a loose strand of her silky, light hair. It’s softer than I imagined. I want to bury my face in it. I want to bite it, gently, roll it between my teeth. Instead, I just let the silkiness of it sink into my skin, stroking it carefully, reverently.
I always liked all women. All types. But it turns out, when it came to love, to this soul-deep, consuming obsession… I did have a specific preference.
One. Specific. Preference.
Five foot seven. Slim but with unexpectedly lush thighs. Eyes like a stormy sea. Hair like spun moonlight. A voice like whispered secrets. And a stubborn streak a mile wide hidden beneath a veneer of shy composure.
Just like Diana, soyeah. From the crown of her head to the delicate curve of her ankles. From her slightly protruding, adorable ears to those surprisingly wide hips on her otherwise slender frame.
