Page 97 of Charmingly Obsessed
When he finally, finally sets me down, not so gently, on the edge of the enormous, rumpled bed, I realize my teeth are chattering. Not from cold. But from sheer adrenaline. And fear.I smooth down my hair, my robe, forcing myself to meet his intense, furious gaze.
Oh God. He looks… incandescent with rage.
Mykola has rolled up the sleeves of his crisp, white shirt, his face set like a five-star general about to issue orders at a military drill. His jaw tightens as he exhales sharply, another one of those controlled, dangerous breaths.
“I can’t believe,” he grits out, his voice low, menacing, “that I actually have to ask this. But, damn it, I do. Diana,” he says my name like it’s a curse, “how many men have you been with?”
I sit still, thinking, pretending to mentally count, just to piss him off. Just to buy myself a few more seconds.
The fury rolling off him in palpable waves is nearly tangible, making my head pound. My mind is a frozen, chaotic battlefield of conflicting emotions. I try to stand, to escape, but it’s like slipping on ice, falling harder, more humiliatingly, each time.
I open my mouth to answer, to tell him the pathetic, embarrassing truth. But today is not a day for that kind of bravery.
So instead, I lift a single, trembling finger.
One.
Mykola shakes his head, a series of small, sharp, disbelieving movements, as he paces before the bed like a caged, restless predator.
There’s a tension in his step, a barely contained, violent energy coiled deep inside him. I notice, absently, that he’s moved the small, exquisite, antique crystal swan from the living room onto the desk in here. Probably so he can snack on the ridiculously expensive, artisanal Swiss chocolates it contains while he’s brooding.
I could really use a piece of that chocolate right now.
“One,” he repeats, his voice flat, dead. He nods to himself. “One. Fantastic. Just… fantastic. I’ll have to come up with anespecially creative, and particularly painful, form of death for that… one.”
“Mykola,” I say, rubbing my palms nervously over my knees. “I’m sor—”
“Not another goddamn word,” he cuts me off, halting his pacing, his eyes blazing. “Take off your jacket. And your top. Your blouse. All of it.”
“Mykola,” I whisper, my throat suddenly tight, constricted.
“I said,” his voice rises, each syllable pronounced with a sharp, chilling precision that makes my blood run cold, “take. It. Off. Now.”
This is my favorite jacket. My only really good jacket. A structured, but still playful, blazer from a small, independent Parisian designer. I fumble with the delicate, mother-of-pearl buttons of my silk blouse, but my fingers feel stiff, clumsy, uncooperative. I try to pull the fine, expensive fabric apart, but I can’t seem to move properly. I’m frozen again.
“She was right,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “Grandma was right about everything. This… this is the only way with you, isn’t it?”
I flinch at that. No! She wasn’t right! Serafima Pylypivna doesn’t know me at all! She lives in her own world of elaborate, dramatized fantasies, assigning people roles, manipulating them as if life were her own personal stage play. He only believes her because they’re so alike. Both of them. Terrifyingly alike. Master manipulators.
“Diana.” His voice fills the opulent, silent bedroom, a harsh, ragged whisper now. “I understand. I finally, finally fucking understand. Your self-esteem… it’s so low, it’s practically subterranean. It’s beneath the goddamn floor. Beneath the ocean floor, for God’s sake! This isn’t just… shyness, is it, Diana? This is… you truly, genuinely believe it. Don’t you? That you’re… unworthy. Flawed.”
A strangled, broken sound escapes me as his hands, surprisingly gentle now, move to pull my silk blouse down, the fine fabric bunching, catching, as he tugs it from my shoulders.
I don’t fight him. I don’t stop him. Instead, my hands, with a will of their own, instinctively reach for his wrists, my fingers clutching tightly. His hands are broad, powerful, the muscles tense beneath my desperate grip. Without thinking, without meaning to, I rake my nails, hard, across the tanned skin of his forearms. Leaving angry, red marks.
“You can report me for this later,” he murmurs, his voice unsteady now, thick with an emotion I can’t decipher. “It’ll be fair. Just. I’m not asking for your permission anymore, Diana. This… this is happening. Right here. Right now. And I don’t give a good goddamn about the consequences.”
Yes, let it happen. I’m agree. Yes!
“Mykola,” I mouth the word, barely able to form any coherent sound. “I—”
I press my hand over my lips. Heat, sharp and mortifying, rushing through me as he slides my blouse from my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.
The world tilts, my senses flickering in and out like faulty, overloaded wiring. I swear I can hear a fire alarm ringing in the distance, feel the air in the room growing hotter, thicker, more suffocating with every ragged breath I take.
Mykola moves me back onto the bed, and I could resist. I could push him away. But I don’t. Instead, I bite down on my lower lip so hard I taste the coppery tang of my own blood. And I force myself to look at him. To watch.
He follows me onto the bed, adjusting my posture with a strange, almost clinical precision, his hands firm, yet careful. Inside my head, my thoughts crash and break like waves in a violent, churning storm.
