The Maddest Obsession (Made, #2)

by Danielle Lori

She snapped her compact closed. “We will marry, and you won’t get in the way.” “I don’t have any designs on him.” “Good.” She headed to leave. There was something on my mind I hadn’t been able to get rid of. “Kak moya,” I said, smoothing the gloss on my lips and watching her in the mirror. “What does it mean?” She stopped at the door, assessing me with a look. “It means, like mine

“I’ve thought about you so much you’re mine now.” It was a growl that lowered into a threat. “You’re lucky you didn’t let him touch you, Gianna, because I really don’t like it when people touch my things.”

“Moya zvezdochka.” He murmured the two rough words against my lips. I stilled. Those words . . . I’d heard them before. More than once. And then the memory dropped into place. “You,” I breathed, eyes wide. “You were at my wedding

When I was set on a bed, I curled up on my side, heaviness pulling on my consciousness. My voice was a whisper. “I’ll make him love me, you’ll see.” A thumb skimmed across my cheek. “If anyone can do it, it would be you . . .” His voice was soft and rough. “Moya zvezdochka.” And then it went black.

“How could someone ever forget your face?” I’d asked him once. For some reason, he thought that was funny. I felt like an idiot. Though it wasn’t only that. It seemed he was always going out of his way to do nice things for me.

I could still hear the words he pressed against my ear after I’d announced he’d been at my wedding. “I’m glad to see you remember, malyshka, because there is nothing I have ever forgotten about you.” And then he’d dropped me to my feet and walked out the door.

“Mommy, Mommy, can I have it? Puh-lease, Mommy?” I paused with an egg carton in hand to look at the tiny dark-haired girl who seemed so eager to have a . . . single banana. The answer must have been yes because the girl smiled real big and hugged the fruit to her chest. I drew my eyes to the mother, who was cooing at the cutest little giggling baby. Warmth set in, yet a strange pressure ached in my chest. I stood there for too long, watching the happy trio until they disappeared around the corner. I swallowed, confused at the feeling that stopped me in my tracks. A feeling that bloomed like hope and, at the same time, wilted like despair.

Somewhere between the ages of twenty and twenty-eight, I’d forgotten what longing felt like.

“My wife likes you,” he said, voice low. “Not surprising,” I said. “I’m a very likeable person.” “She might have been brought up in this life, but she didn’t grow up like you and I, Gianna. She’s not . . .” Damaged? Desensitized? Unsympathetic? Was there a word for all of them? “Cold?”

“Voz’mi menya glubzhe,” he rasped.

“Lie back and spread your legs.” “Aren’t you going to kiss me first?” I blinked at him. My heart burned when he actually did it. He grasped the back of my neck and pressed his mouth to mine, our tongues sliding against each other. A deep, empty ache pulsed between my thighs, and I knew of only one thing that would ease it. I moaned, dug my fingers into his hair, and kissed him deeper. “So greedy,” he murmured against my lips.

My stomach turned cold. I went to take a step back but didn’t make it. A gasp of fear escaped me when his hand shot out and grabbed me by the throat. I’d been conditioned to expect the worst from men from a young age, and my heart thundered in my chest as I waited for what he would do. I expected pain. So much so, shock and warmth rocked me at my center when he pulled me closer by the throat and kissed me. A sweet pull on my lips and then a soft bite of teeth. He pressed his lips to my ear, running his thumb across the fluttering pulse in my throat. “I’ll say when this is over, Gianna.”

She cocked a brow that dared me to say something. The woman had no idea. She thought I liked her. I’d gone out of my way and followed her around for goddamn years just to look at her. I’d insulted her just to hear her smoky voice and witty response. And now, after my move to Seattle, it was hard to believe she was here in front of me. That I could reach out and touch her. That she would let me. It didn’t matter if she dressed like a 1970s drug lord’s wife or a die-hard Ariana Grande fan—nothing could make me forget her. What was worse was now, I had the memory of her looking up at me from her knees. That image had burned itself so deep beneath my skin I’d never get it out. As much as I wanted to keep her, I knew I shouldn’t. I couldn’t give her everything she’d ask of me.

I knew at that moment she’d never marry another goddamn man but me. And she wouldn’t marry me. “And if he does?” “I told you, I won’t ever marry again.” She would leave. The life, the city, me. The irrational thought that I wouldn’t be able to find her sent an icy rush of panic through me. And I could find fucking anyone. I’d never let her leave.

After being released from the overcrowded cells of Butyrka at nineteen, I’d come to the States, while Ronan chose to stay in Moscow as a measly enforcer in the Bratva. Fifteen years later, he owned his own empire. But he still had a more hands-on approach to getting what he wanted, while delegation—and a bit of manipulation—was a better fit to win over Sergei Popov.

She was scared of her papà. It sent a rush of anger through me. The only one she should be nervous of was me. “Voy kak volk, malyshka.” Howl like a wolf. Her soft eyes flicked to me. They burned a small hole in my chest. “Voy kak volk,” she whispered. She’d said it right. And I suddenly knew I was going to keep her.

Saul held her by the face, his fingers digging into her cheeks. His jaw tightened but he released her, stepped back, and then brushed off his sleeve. I didn’t look at her—couldn’t look at her—because if there was a single red mark on her skin I’d snap. “Get out, Gianna,” I said. She hesitated. “

When I passed his underboss, a single pop ricocheted off the walls as I pulled out my .45 and shot him in the arm. He hissed in pain and slid down the wall. Saul’s jaw was tight, but he only arched a brow. “That’s because you touched her.” I put my gun away and opened the door. “Every time you touch something that belongs to me, I’ll fuck up something of yours.”

“I heard a gunshot,” I said, the relief evident in my voice. Four simple words cut out my heart and displayed it for him to see. It was bleeding, dripping to the floor at his feet. He nudged my chin, pulling my gaze to his. His face was close, blurred through my wet eyes. “I thought you hated me, malyshka.” “I do,” I breathed against his lips. But it was too raw, too desperate, to sound convincing.

His torso was covered in black and white tattoos, from a Madonna and child on his stomach to a dagger weaving through his collarbone from shoulder to shoulder. A cross on one of his pecs, and a rose on the other. A domed church on his side. A lighthouse on his right arm. It was the manacle on one of his wrists that really brought it home. He’d been to prison. A Russian prison.

My attention caught on something. I dropped my gaze to his grip on me, to the elastic band on his wrist. “What is . . .?” I trailed off when I realized what it was. And only because I’d worn the same wide-banded black hair ties since I could remember. My heart picked up as the memory came back, of him slipping that hair tie into his pocket while I was naked in his bed three years before. The surprise hit me so hard I went on the offensive. “That’s mine,” I accused, like it was something important he’d stolen from me. I reached for it as if to take it back, but he stopped me by grabbing that wrist, too. “It’s mine now.”

He’d kept it—worn it—for three years? I couldn’t figure out if it was slightly disturbing, or . . . hot

When he ran a thumb across my cheek, warmth crept into my heart and melted. “Tell me you hate me, malyshka

He fisted my shirt and dragged me closer, pressing the next words to my ear. “I’m going to ruin every part of your body for any other man, malyshka, and you’re going to thank me when I’m done.” I was making a deal with the devil. And I couldn’t even find the grace to save myself.

“I love your hair, malyshka. It’s the first part of you I saw—the back of your head at your wedding. And then you turned around and looked right at me. But you weren’t looking at me—you were looking past me, toward your new husband, with this infatuated glow in your eyes. The first woman I wanted to look at me was too busy staring at another man. That was when I started to hate him—and I still do, even though he is dead”—his voice roughened with a slight accent—“because he got that look from you, and I never have.”

“Don’t tell me no, malyshka.” His voice was so deep and almost desperate, like he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if I denied him. I wished I could say I held my ground. But as soon as he kissed me, promising to fuck me missionary against my lips, it was all over.

Last night, after the most intense session of missionary sex I’d ever had, with my head resting on his pounding heart, I’d asked, “How many women have you been with more than three times?” For a moment, I didn’t think he was going to respond. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, malyshka.” It was one. And it was me.

“I didn’t sleep with her.” Relief settled in my chest. And that annoyed me. “Didn’t ask,” I said. “I didn’t even touch her.” “Don’t care.” “The clasp on my watch broke. I left it on the table at dinner.” “Riveting.” I was flustered, my hand was sweaty, and I couldn’t get the stupid key to turn in the lock. “Gianna—”

“There won’t be any more drama, Gianna. This is exclusive now.” It wasn’t lost on me that I’d just told him I was ending this relationship and he’d countered with making it more serious. I blinked. “Exclusive, just sex?” He shook his head, something sardonic passing through his eyes. “Whatever you want it to be, malyshka.” I swallowed. “You’re leaving any day now, Christian. Let’s just call a spade a spade. This isn’t going to last forever.” “I’m moving back to New York.” My heart dropped. “What? Why?” His gaze touched mine as he said, “I missed the city.” Oh. “You called me flighty,” I breathed. “I meant perfect.”

I asked him what moya zvezdochka meant. He said it meant, my little star. He asked me what the scar on my chin was from. I told him a lack of self-control and the chickenpox. I asked him if he kissed all his neighbors or just me. He looked me in the eye and said, “You’re the only woman I’ve ever kissed, malyshka.” I stopped asking questions after that.

“Because I don’t want to fuck his daughter.” My gaze coasted over the bed. Wild, dark hair, smooth olive skin, and twisted sheets. Gianna slept on her stomach, both hands beneath her pillow. My chest felt heavy while I looked at her soft expression. I wanted to capture that look in a bottle and take it with me everywhere. Maybe then, I’d feel like I had some control over it.

Because it felt like if I didn’t have my possession of her in writing, she’d slip from my fingers again. I was all in, had known this obsession would only escalate once I’d had her body, her attention, and her smiles all to myself. I’d warned her years ago when she’d pressed her lips to mine. I’d let her do it, because I’d thought it would turn me off and then I could finally put this infatuation with her behind me. I hated kissing, especially the sounds of it from the next room—and what it had usually meant for me—since I could remember. But when she’d kissed me, it hadn’t disgusted me in the least. Her lips were soft. Her tongue was hot and wet. And her sigh gave me chills. Violent lust had roared through my blood, dulling my vision. That unsettled me, and then pissed me off enough to step away.

Gianna roused and rolled onto her back. Her soft brown eyes fluttered opened and landed on me. I could feel the heat of them in my chest. Every time she looked at me, it only strengthened my decision. I might have fought it for a long time—for both our sakes—but she was mine now. And she had no idea what I would do to keep it that way. I held her gaze. “Make her fall for me before I fuck it all up. Then, she won’t leave.”

“What are you doing?” she asked, as I got into bed with her and pulled her back against my chest. “Sleeping.” “Here?” She sounded terrified. “Yes. Now, be quiet. I’m tired.” I’d never done this in my life. Wouldn’t be able to sleep a fucking wink.

When you’re obsessed with something for so long and finally obtain it? It feels like coming home to God. And nobody gives up their fucking spot in Heaven.

Fighting through the heavy confusion and unconsciousness, I realized what was holding me down. There was a man in my room. In my bed. Panic bled into my veins, and my eyes shot open. “Go back to sleep, malyshka.” My heart began to beat again. “Oh, my gosh,” I breathed heavily in relief. “I thought you were a serial killer.” A low chuckle came from him. “Not too far off.”

The fifty-pound blanket was only his arm around me, and the heat—that was all him, pressed up against me. No sunlight came in through the window, but the room was still lit. He’d left the bathroom door open and the light on, like I did every night. The thoughtfulness made my heart feel heavy in my chest. But now that I wasn’t alone, it seemed embarrassingly bright in here.

“What do you do for the Bureau?” “Whatever they want me to do.” “So . . . say they told you to go set fire to the old lady’s apartment next door.” “I’d set fire to her apartment.” I swallowed, and the next question came out a little breathless. “Say they told you to kill me.” I met his gaze. Possessive blue flames. And something morally ambiguous. His hand came up to my throat and his thumb brushed across my pulse. Then, he lightly squeezed. “I’d have to decline.”

“Because I’m too much fun?” “Because you’re mine.” My smile fell.

“Tell me why you kiss me,” I breathed against his lips. I thought he might answer me this time. He didn’t. He rolled me onto my back and made me forget my own name.

Walking toward me, he stopped in front of me at the foot of the bed and ran a rough palm across my cheek. If I wasn’t mistaken, the smallest tremor ran through his hand. His voice was soft, but the finest threat wove through. “I can find anyone . . . anywhere.” A thumb brushed my jawline. “Makes me a desirable person to have around. Antonio showed his interest in a partnership, but I had enough obligations and didn’t want to get mixed up with the Italians. I was going to meet with him and decline. But then I saw you.”

“And I agreed to work with your husband. You fascinated me, but I began to hate you, too. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I couldn’t have you. And you were so fucking beautiful.” His thumb ran down my lips. “Then, you were single, and I’d already made you hate me, too.” I swallowed as his hand slid down my throat. “It was a relief, malyshka, because we were everything wrong for each other. But nothing has ever felt more right than finding you like this in my bed.”

“You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now, malyshka.” I flushed, my heart growing ridiculously warm. “I’m trying to be annoyed with you, if you can’t tell.”

“You’re not feeling light-headed when you look at me, are you? Or maybe warmer than usual?” I put the back of my hand to his forehead, as if I was checking for a fever. “What about your heart? Has it started beating?” He was amused. “Actually, I have been feeling a bit different.” My eyes widened in alarm. Then, he grabbed my hand and pressed it against his hard-on. I shook my head with a laugh, shoving him in the chest and turning to walk away, but he caught my wrist and pulled me closer to say in my ear, “It’s delicious, malyshka. Thank you for making it for me.” His words settled like molten glass in my blood. I didn’t sleep in my bed that night. Not the next night. Or the next.

“No, malyshka, I like it.” He ran a thumb across my cheek. “This is just new to me.” He paused, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “And I haven’t figured out how to deal with it yet.” “With what?” “You.”

My frown deepened. “What if someone arrests me while you’re in the bathroom?” “I’d bail you out.” “If you couldn’t?” “I’d be locked up beside you.”

“You know what I’m saying.” I swallowed. “We knew this would come to an end eventually.” His teeth clenched. “This might come to an end for you, but it will never be over for me.”

“Why am I the only one being practical about this?” “Because you’ve never been in this as deeply as me.” No emotion behind those words. Just cold hard fact.

“When I said this was new to me, I meant I can’t fucking think when it comes to you. I shouldn’t have said what I said, malyshka. The thought of someone touching you, taking you from me . . .” His gaze flashed with darkness. “It makes me feel fucking crazy.”

“I promise, I won’t ever say anything like that to you again.” I sighed. “It’s more than that, Christian, and you know it.” “We’ll figure the rest out. But I’m not letting you go.” His jaw clenched, eyes fierce. “I can’t.”