Page 17 of Cruel Obsession

Khren.

My cock thickens against my zipper. Again. The fourth time this morning, and it’s not even noon.

I shift in my chair, the leather groaning under my weight. The office suddenly feels too small. Too warm. The walls pressing in like they’re trying to suffocate me.

I need to fuck someone. Work this out of my system. There are women I could call—discrete, experienced, willing to let me use them hard and walk away clean.

But the thought of touching anyone else makes my skin crawl.

Because it wouldn’t be her.

Blyad.

What the fuck is going on with you, mudak?

This is bullshit.

I drag both hands down my face, fingernails scraping against stubble. The sting helps. Barely.

This is pathetic. Dangerous. I’m sitting here with Sergei Tulikov planning God-knows-what revenge, my father still running girls through his pipeline, our competitors closing in from all directions—and I can’t stop thinking about some random woman.

A woman who saw me at my worst and probably thinks I’m a monster.

She wouldn’t be wrong.

The door opens without warning.

I look up, already scowling, ready to tear into whoever had the balls to—

Yanis.

He fills the doorway—six-two of steady calm that makes me want to throw something. His suit is tailored but conservative, navy instead of black, no visible ink on his skin. He could pass for legitimate. Respectable.

Everything I’m not.

“You look like shit,” he says, closing the door behind him.

“Fuck off.”

“Good morning to you, too, brother.” He drops into the chair across from my desk, crossing one ankle over his knee. Relaxed. Easy.

I hate how comfortable he looks in his own skin.

“Father called,” he continues when I don’t respond.

My jaw tightens. “Of course he did.”

“Said you two had words.”

“‘Words.’” I bark out a laugh. “Is that what he called it?”

Yanis studies me, those ice-blue eyes—same as mine, same as Mishka’s were—reading more than I want him to see. “What happened?”

“He reminded me that I’m a disappointment. That I killed our brother. That I destroyed our mother.” The words come out flat. Mechanical. I’ve heard them so many times they’ve lost their sting.

That’s a lie.

They still cut. Every. Single. Time.