Page 8 of King of Obsession

His life was just threatened, but he took a shower. What kind of fucked up is he? I feel my brows furrow as I narrow my eyes at him. Not one tattoo decorates his body, but a platinum chain with an intricate cross and rose pendant rests against his chest. On his tan skin, it looks lethal. He’s good-looking, I’ll give him that, but I am not partial to good looks.

Occasionally, Enzo cocks his head, looking through the window as if he can see me and checking if I am still there. Justto mess with him, I switch the light on and off. A small smile grazes his sculpted mouth, his bottom lip a bit fuller, while a Cupid’s bow gives him a playful yet sensual trait.

Now, I am playing with the prey. It must be the exhaustion because I have no logical explanation for my uncharacteristic behavior. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I am enjoying this a tad too much. The challenge is so appealing that it makes me want to plan an epic death for him.

Just to check on him one more time, I bring the binoculars to my eyes and see him moving to his desk. Even in the dim light, he appears powerful, oozing male strength while he sits on his throne, delegating—just like any other man in our world. I bet he doesn’t dirty his hands but has someone else do it for him.

A pang of disappointment hits me square in my chest. Just for once, I’d like to meet a man who is at least worthy of breathing and walking on this earth—takers, all of them. The world is their oyster, and they’re the freaking pearl in it, safely secured until I rip the shell open and stab it to death, filling it with their blood.

I should sleep and prepare to seize my next chance. Instead, I slip on a red dress, tight enough to show the body I keep in excellent shape. Everything I put in and on it is chosen with care. That’s why I would never allow a dick to even come near my temple and dirty me up.

Letting my silver hair loose, I put on diamond studs to go with my necklace. In red heels, I pick a small clutch and go downstairs to the hotel bar.

I people watch to observe how the world works. Women don’t dress to impress men. They dress to compete, checking each other out while smiling as fake as the layers of makeupthey wear. That’s why I can’t choose sides. We women are not necessarily better, we just have it worse. It’s an unfair playground. And some men get high on the ego trip as if it’s the ride of their lives, exchanging women just like their other toys simply because they can afford it.

The only true difference from home is the grating volume that overshadows the pleasant jazz notes playing in the background—this shrill loudness of these people as if you’re loud, you are heard. Where I come from, the louder you are, the less important you are. But every culture has its own rules for playing the game. The only universal truth is people flock to those they perceive as someone important.

The hotel bar lounge is lavish, adorned with green wallpaper and rich brown seats, with hundreds of golden strips of lights pouring down from the ceiling. Bottles line the extravagant mirror shelf as the bartender prepares drinks, catering to the big spenders who are accustomed to the finest things in life, hoping to surprise them.

Taking a seat at the long, sleek bar, the soft leather seat swallows me. The bartender rushes to take my order, offering me a flirty grin, not hiding he’d like to serve me in more ways than one. Even with my resting bitch face on, men want to fuck me like they’re programmed to think with their dicks, ruling their every instinct. Truly pathetic.

As I sip from my wineglass, a heady scent of bergamot, cedar, and something smooth yet spicy invades my nostrils, filling the air with a rich and sensual fragrance. Having expensive taste myself, I recognize it’s a fragrance very few can afford.

From the corner of my eye, I see an immaculate and stylish dark blue suit and dark shirt. A man with exquisite taste.

What is he doing here?This is a strange yet exhilarating situation. I am so out of my comfort zone and have no idea how to behave. For the first time.

The silence stretches as the bartender serves him a glass of a limited-edition Macallan whiskey. Damn, that’s my favorite too. I hate we have that in common. It feels like a betrayal to kill my counterpart, who has such good taste in apparently everything.He’s a man. Get your shit together.

People and sounds all vanish as my attention is directed to him with a single focus. An inexplicable warmth buzzes under my skin and my heart beats out of rhythm, drumming an unknown melody.

He sips leisurely as if he has absolutely no care in the world. Although I’m dying to strike up a conversation, I won’t relinquish that power or give him the satisfaction. Maybe he doesn’t know who I am and is here to pick up a woman for the night.

My mistake makes me paranoid, which is understandable. I should just kill him with the next opportunity instead of wasting my time trying to satisfy my curiosity about both him and why I behave so strangely in his presence. Knowing Adamo, he will be on my last damn nerve until I finish the job. I hate that, but I must suck it up if I want the information.

He continues drinking, unperturbed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each elegant sip. Even his fingers are well manicured with thick veins pulsing with life along his hand. It’s the first time I’ve noticed this on a man.

“How long are we going to pretend?” he asks, breaking the silence. His deep timbre, tinged with carnality, raises goose bumps on my skin.

Did he touch me and poison my body to behave this oddly?

Ignoring that silly notion, I don’t even try to hide my smile as I tilt my head to him. He lost the power game we had going on, and we both know it.

He turns to me, his arm gripping the edge of my seat to spin me. Face-to-face, I am not prepared for the sight of him that has me stuttering on a breath. Those deep green eyes look ready to swallow me whole in their unknown depth.

Lashes of anger hit me so swiftly I feel redness creep up my neck and cheeks. Squirming in my chair, I scowl at his smirk.

He arches a thick brow that is just as perfectly sculpted as the rest of him. The gesture displays arrogance and a heap of self-confidence. It’s like he ate the entire damn cake and left only crumbs for the other males.

Putting his elbow on the polished bar, he rests his cheek in his palm. The gesture is intimate, as if we’ve known each other for a long time and are at ease in each other’s presence. Truly disconcerting.

“Is that your best pickup line?”

“Only for women who try to kill me.”

Is there even a point in denying the truth? Curiosity gets the better of me and I engage in this odd interaction.

“Lucky you. You get to live another day.”