Page 19 of Arranged Obsession
The more I think about it, the more I consider his brother Cormac. That weird moment we had out front. The way he stared at me with that disconcerting, straight-up terrifying intensity, like he wanted to dissect my muscles and peel the skinfrom my bones. He’s hot as hell in a murder-you-and-fuck-you sort of way.
Does it make me an insane person if I almost prefer the psychopath to the boring one?
That’s just my desperation talking.
Finn’s going to be a good husband, and that should be a blessing.
But after an hour, I have to get out of here. “Dad said dinner’s soon, right?” I pretend to check my watch as if I didn’t know exactly what time it was. “We should go join up with everyone else.”
Finn seems as relieved as I feel. “Sounds good to me. And hey, this was a good conversation. I think we can make this work, right?”
“Right.” I beam at him while inwardly I’m screaming. Because this is the worst-case scenario.
Not terrible enough that Adriano will let me wriggle out of this. But nowhere near good, either.
We get up, and he goes in for a hug while I stick out my hand for a handshake, and we end up sort of awkwardly switching between the two and laughing like morons, and my god, I want to jump out a window. Finn downs another beer, and then we’re out of there, and I don’t know how I’m going to survive the next twenty-four hours with this guy in the house, much less the rest of my life.
Chapter 7
Bianca
Ikeep staring at that rose.
It doesn’t smell like my ghost anymore. Like always, the scent faded away. But its memory still lingers. Sometimes I can close my eyes, and it’s like I can taste my ghost on my tongue, the memory of his strange scent seared straight onto my brainstem.
I’m more attracted to asmellthan I am to my own future husband.
And that’s a serious problem.
I can’t sleep. Even though it’s after midnight and I’m exhausted, every time I close my eyes, visions of my future life with Finn torture me. The dull boredom of our daily life. The quiet dread of knowing it’ll always be him until the day I die.
I’ll never have love. Not in any meaningful way.
Maybe I’ll cheat and find someone, but it can never be public. I’m doomed to hiding any real relationships from the world. Trapped in a perfectly fine marriage. Crushed by boredom.
“What iswrongwith me?” I whisper, jumping out of bed. I throw on a hoodie and sweats against the chill of the evening and pace around my suite. I should behappyFinn seems like a decent guy. What would I rather? Some violent asshole who’s going to hit me and treat me like a breeding cow? Obviously not, but a dumb little voice in the back of my head keeps thinking maybe I’d end up like Adriano.
Falling madly and stupidly in love with my husband.
That’s not going to happen. Even if Finn and I develop some kind of acceptable relationship, it’ll never be that toe-curling, knee-shakingneed. Maybe I can be okay with that. I mean, it could always be worse.
But I still feel like it’s fucking terrible.
I leave my suite and steal out into the halls. The mansion is dead quiet this late. Red lights glow under security cameras, and I hear the soft footsteps of guards down on the first floor. I walk to the western wing of the building and pause outside a large wooden door.
Then I smell it. Which can’t be right. I push inside slowly, breathing deep, and it’s definitely him. I know that scent. I dream about it all the time.
It’s my ghost. He’s here, in this room, or at least he was.
But how? And why? It makes no sense. I’ve never smelled my ghost anywhere but in my suite. I’ve even checked a few times over the years, just in case he was wandering around or secretly sleeping in one of the guest areas.
It’s him, though. I’m sure of it. The ghost’s scent lingers in the library, spicy and masculine. I come in here at least once or twicea week when I’m having trouble sleeping, and this has never happened before. My mouth’s hanging open, and my heart’s racing, and a part of me expects to find some Chapstick left out on one of the easy chairs near the massive shelving units.
Instead, what I find is infinitely worse.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, startled and freezing in surprise. “I didn’t think?—”
I don’t finish that sentence as Cormac Whelan looks up at me, his blue eyes frosty and harder than diamonds, his full and gorgeous lips in a tight line, his square and masculine jaw working ever so slightly. He’s got a book open in his lap, and his right hand is gripping a glass of something brown.
