The Maddest Obsession (Made Book 2)

by Danielle Lori

  “Tough shit. If I’d asked my wife to marry me, she would have said no. So, guess what? I didn’t fucking ask her.”

  I couldn’t force Gianna to marry me. I wanted—needed—to be different than the other men in her life. She liked me. I knew I couldn’t handle seeing the betrayal in her eyes now, not after she’d told me that and how much better it had felt than hearing she hated me.

  “I could just as easily find someone else for her,” he baited.

  “Go ahead.” My voice was dark. “Might save us both some time if you line her prospects up in a row right now.”

  “Jesus,” Nico muttered. “Fine. Then, think of it this way—this relationship of yours makes Gianna look like a throwaway. Good enough to fuck, but not good enough to marry.”

  I clenched my teeth.

  “I’m not saying it.” He rocked back in his chair. “Just the way it looks, Allister.”

  I got to my feet, finished with this conversation.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “Fuck you.”

  His chuckle followed me out the door.

  SOMETHING SMELLED LIKE PANCAKES. IT made my stomach churn.

  I loved pancakes.

  I rolled out of bed, brushed my teeth, and combed my hair, then padded out to the kitchen to find Christian at the stove, shirtless, his hair wet. I loved him like this, the casual side of him not many got to see. Like this, he was mine.

  But when I wrapped my arms around his waist, he tensed. Uncertainty flickered through me. He’d been quiet the past couple of days, and an insecure part of me was obsessing over what it could mean. Things had been well since he’d opened up to me last week, but I hadn’t asked him for more, either. It was pathetic, I knew, but I was scared the next question would push him away for good. And to test it felt like toeing the edge of the dark.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked when I stepped away from him.

  I looked at the plate of pancakes on the counter and wrinkled my nose. “Not right now.” Grabbing the orange juice from the fridge, I poured a glass.

  The next words out of his mouth caused me to choke as the first refreshing sip slid down my throat. “We should get married.”

  I coughed, eyes watering. Slowly, I set the glass on the island and wiped some juice off my chin.

  “I don’t think I heard you right.”

  He turned to face me, his eyes deep and unfathomable. “I said, we should get married.”

  My chest flared from hot to cold. “What?”

  “You heard me, Gianna.”

  My pulse raced. “We’ve only been seeing each other for, like . . . a month.”

  He let out a sarcastic breath. “You’ve been mine for fucking years.”

  The conviction in his voice fluttered through my blood, settling in my heart. The shock had thrown me off-balance, and I didn’t know how to react. I walked around the island to put some distance between us; to find some space to think.

  I turned toward him. “I told you how I feel about marriage.”

  He shook his head, his eyes flickering with something heavy. “You know those aren’t realistic expectations. Maybe for another woman, but not you.”

  I hated that he was right. That eventually, if I did stay, all it would take was one man to be interested enough in me. It seemed Made Men just couldn’t fathom that a woman could remain single and happy.

  My blood pulsed in my ears.

  My hands were clammy.

  “I told you, I would run.”

  “And I told you, I would find you.” His tone was dark. “You know this is where you belong, Gianna.”

  I’d never been fond of leaving, but I did know I couldn’t willingly go back into another marriage to a man I didn’t know. I only understood the edges of Christian, not the deep, dark center that made him, and until then, I’d never truly know him. But now that the shock had settled, I realized I didn’t hate the idea of marrying him. That sent a prickling sense of anxiety through me; it showed me how deeply I was under his spell. I loved him. And I feared what I would forfeit just to be with him.

  I swallowed. “Proposals usually come with rings and bended knees. Sometimes, a nice dinner.”

  “We both know, that would have made you panic.”

  When did he learn so much about me while I remained in the dark about him? Bitterness bit at my chest. Why couldn’t he just open up to me? Was I not good enough? Too lowly?

  “I wasn’t lying when I told you I wouldn’t marry again.”

  “Things change, malyshka.”

  I would have laughed if someone had told me Christian Allister would ask me to marry him just a few weeks ago. I would’ve never been able to fathom what it felt like to fall for someone, to care about them so much it hurt. Things had changed. I used to hate him, but now, I couldn’t imagine being happy without him.

  “Why?” It rushed out of me, my eyes burning with emotion. “Why do you want to marry me?”

  His jaw ticked in thought. “Some people might see you . . . differently by being with me unmarried.”

  My heart dipped and squeezed in disappointment. This was all about appearances? I guessed I should have known.

  “I don’t care how people see me.”

  “I do,” he growled. “I don’t want anyone to think you mean less to me than you do. You might not see it now, but eventually, it’ll get to you, Gianna, and you’ll resent me for it.”

  Maybe what he was saying was true. But, in the end, how much could I really mean to a man who refused to share with me the basic facts of himself? Who didn’t trust me? Who grew distant and closed off at the simplest questions?

  “I can’t marry another man I don’t know.”

  His voice was rough, dipped in something sharp. “I’ve told you more about myself than I’ve ever told anyone else.”

  “That’s not a good enough reason for me to marry you, Christian.”

  “Fine.” He shook his head, his eyes flashing with darkness. “How about because I love you, Gianna? Because I think I have since the moment I saw you? Because if you weren’t in this world anymore, I would find a way to take myself out of it?”

  My heart stopped.

  Went cold.

  And then lit with fire.

  We stared at each other, silence and the vehemence of his voice touching my skin with rough fingers.

  “You don’t mean that,” I breathed.

  “I meant every goddamn word I said.”

  The pressure in my chest grew so tight it brought a rush of tears to my eyes. The only other person who had ever told me she loved me was my mother. And now, it felt like a light had popped and burst inside me, filling me with something warm, sticky, and possibly heartbreaking.

  Indecision pulled me in two different directions. I wanted to give in so badly I ached. But the part of me who’d felt isolated, alone, unworthy in my past marriage stood firm in my decision. If I married him now, gave him all the cards, I’d never win. He would never give me more when he didn’t have to. I could see it in his eyes: full of fire but steady with conviction.

  “I won’t marry another man I don’t know,” I said quietly.

  His teeth clenched.

  I gave him a chance to fill the silence between us.

  He didn’t.

  A tear ran down my cheek, and my throat tried to close around the words before they could escape. “I can’t be with you and only get half of you anymore.”

  Something conflicted flared in his eyes.

  I turned to leave, but his words stopped me.

  “Try and leave me, Gianna.” It was a threat, but there was something else—something rough and untamed—behind it. Something close to panic.

  My gaze met his. One last parting look, and then I walked out the door.

  Once I was in the hall, my pulse jumped at the sound of a glass breaking. I imagined my orange juice pooling on his kitchen floor right next to where my discarded heart lay.

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting on my couch, not
sure what to do with myself or where to go, when my front door opened.

  My eyes shot to his, but he didn’t hold my gaze as he shut the door behind him. He always held eye-contact. He’d gotten dressed, not even sparing the tie clip and cufflinks.

  “You want to know what made me this way? Fine.” His voice carried something bitter. “I’ll tell you.”

  He paced further into the room, stopped a few feet in front of me, and then let out a caustic breath, like he couldn’t believe he was doing this. Like he already regretted it.

  My lungs grew tight with uncertainty, then inflated with relief that he was giving in.

  “My mother would do anything for a few bucks, Gianna. Anything to get her high. Heroine was her drug of choice, but she was far from particular.”

  I swallowed, now understanding why he’d been so unpleasant when he’d gotten me out of jail even though we’d met before. The drugs. He’d probably been disgusted with me.

  “Somehow, she got mixed up with a pimp in the Bratva. We all knew when she had a client because they would always knock three times and it would shake the entire one-bedroom apartment we lived in. It was a never-ending cycle. Couldn’t get any sleep with the sounds of fucking going on in the other room until four in the morning.” He twisted his watch on his wrist. Once, twice, three times.

  “You think I’m good-looking now?” His gaze filled with sarcasm. “You should have seen me as a kid.”

  My chest went cold as horror bubbled up inside.

  “A few of her clients seemed to be more interested in a pretty five-year-old boy than my mother. And she wasn’t hesitant to oblige them. You know what I remember as being the most irritating? I had a United States quarter I kept under my pillow. It was the only thing I owned”—his voice turned acidic around the edges—“and they always fucking touched it. Would pick it up, smile, and toss it back down.”

  The backs of my eyes burned, a few tears escaping. I let them roll down my cheeks while he continued.

  “Eventually, my mother remembered she had two sons. The money could really come in then.” His eyes flared with contempt. “That was the first man I ever killed, malyshka. Stabbed him in the back with a kitchen knife. I was seven by then. A couple of men showed up, disposed of his body, and she never sent anyone to my little brother again.”

  I didn’t know if he expected me to be judgmental or horrified about what he’d done. I felt neither. Some men deserved to die.

  A grimace touched his lips. “Nobody cleaned up the blood right. It just sat there for years, this red, lingering stain.” He finished it thoughtfully, as if he was picturing that stain right now. “Russians are superstitious, and eventually, they became too fucking scared to touch me. My eyes disturbed them.”

  I moved to the edge of the couch, taking a shallow breath.

  “But this fairy tale isn’t over yet. I think I was thirteen when she stumbled home, drunk or high, probably both. She fell on top of me on the couch, mistaking me for one of her clients.” A bitter breath escaped him. “She tried to fuck her own son.”

  Bile turned in my stomach, rising up my throat.

  “That was the night she fell asleep on her back on the floor. She started to gag, but instead of rolling her onto her side, Ronan and I stood there and watched her choke on her own vomit.”

  My face went pale.

  I covered my mouth.

  He let out a mocking noise at my expression. “Sorry I couldn’t give you the white-picket-fence story you’ve been waiting to hear.”

  I ran to the bathroom and threw up everything in my stomach.

  KNEELING OVER THE TOILET, I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

  A kernel of doubt played in a corner of my mind. And then it popped like I’d nuked it in the microwave.

  I didn’t have a weak stomach.

  And while his story was gut-wrenching and disturbing on a few different levels, it didn’t horrify me to the point I’d lose last night’s dinner in the toilet bowl.

  I got to my feet, brushed my teeth, and then went to get dressed.

  He’d told me all that thinking I wouldn’t want to be with him anymore. I knew by the regretful look on his face before he’d even begun. He thought I would see him as a victim, or maybe even less of a man.

  And as for his mother, I felt no remorse.

  I didn’t see him any differently than I had before. Now, I only felt closer to him than ever. And I wanted to be closer, to know more—everything—like what had happened to him and his brother afterward. I wanted to tell him I loved him.

  I perused the options on the shelf. Pink boxes. Blue boxes. All kinds of gimmicks—smart countdown timer, extra-quick response time, and an early detection option. It was a little overwhelming. I grabbed the one in the brightest box.

  My hands shook as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and ripped it out of the package. I didn’t know why. It couldn’t be possible. I’d had my period a week ago. Granted, it seemed lighter than usual—in fact, the last few had been—but still, a period was a period, right?

  After following the instructions, I set the test on the sink and sat on the edge of the tub to wait.

  I chewed my lip.

  Checked for split ends.

  Tapped my foot on the floor.

  God, this was ridiculous.

  I got up, stomped over to the test, and picked it up.

  There was a quiver inside me. It started out slow, working its way to my extremities. It trembled in my veins and burned in my eyes. And when it reached my heart, it squeezed it in a vise, leaving a tight, warm sensation behind.

  I slid down the bathroom door, staring at two pink lines.

  And I bawled like a baby.

  I woke up the next morning at his place, realizing I must have fallen asleep while waiting for him to come home. I could sleep through anything—though, as I ran a hand across his side of the bed, I found the sheets still cold.

  I took a shower and got ready for the doctor’s appointment I’d made last week for birth control. It didn’t sound like I would need it anymore, but I was still hesitant to believe I was pregnant. I was concerned about the bleeding and what it could mean. And I worried about not being on prenatal vitamins, the occasional glass of wine I had with supper, and all the rough sex in between. Granted, the latter had probably gotten me into this mess, so maybe that fear was a little irrational.

  I made two quick stops before my appointment. One to the bank, and one to Val’s. As soon as she opened the door in a silk robe, I slapped twenty grand cash into her hand. Her laugh followed me all the way to the curb.

  As I sat in the waiting room, I sent Christian a text asking him to meet me at noon. It showed he’d seen it, but he didn’t respond. A robust nurse with a friendly smile called my name. I wiped my sweaty palms on my dress, took a deep breath, and then followed her.

  It was called breakthrough bleeding. Considering I was already eleven weeks pregnant and everything had looked good on the ultrasound, the doctor wasn’t concerned about it. By my calculations, that meant I’d gotten pregnant the very first time Christian and I had sex. I should have expected nothing less from the man.

  At noon, I sat on a bench with a grocery sack filled with every kind of prenatal vitamin the pharmacy had and an excitement and fear of the unknown. I was scared about this baby, slightly terrified about not doing things right—I hadn’t had the best childhood to gain experience from. But for the first time in my life, it felt like something had gone right.

  Now, I just hoped Christian felt the same way.

  I pulled off a piece of bread. “Here, birdy, birdy.”

  “Reflecting on your life choices?”

  My heart stilled at the deep sound of his voice, but I didn’t look at him yet. The eye-contact would burn with too much emotion, and I wasn’t ready for it.

  I swallowed. “Trying out a new career of bird-calling.”

  “Ah. It seems you’d better stick with gambling,” he said, as the pigeons all h
eaded in the opposite direction.

  “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

  “Usually, that somewhere is a little higher than an aspiration to hang out in a park and feed fat pigeons.”

  “You sound like an impressionist.”

  A smile touched his voice. “I think you mean pessimist.”

  I finally met his gaze. Blue. The look grabbed hold and hung on. It wasn’t just ice anymore; it was late nights, rough hands, Russian words, and heavy hearts. His suit and hair were immaculate, as always, but something tired lingered behind his eyes.

  “You didn’t come home last night,” I said quietly.

  “I stayed at work.” His jaw tightened. “Can’t sleep across a hall from you.”

  “I slept in your bed last night.”

  Conflict and confusion waged in his eyes. “Why?”

  I stood and moved toward him. “I don’t care about what happened in your past. It doesn’t matter to me. And if you think I would see you differently because of what happened to you as a child, or even what you might have done, you don’t know me at all.”

  His gaze coasted above my head, his jaw ticking in thought. “You reacted differently.”

  “That wasn’t about what you told me . . . but because I’m pregnant, Christian.”

  His gaze dropped to search my face and then it filled with something dark as sin and satisfied. “You’re sure?”

  “One-hundred percent. I know it might come as a shock and all, considering how careful we were being—”

  He cupped my face with a palm, running a thumb across my cheek. “Moya zvezdochka.” I felt the intensity of his relief in the way his hand shook slightly, and it made my throat tighten. I suddenly knew this was the only man I wanted to do this with. Happiness pinged off the walls of my chest, leaving me feeling raw.

  He wiped a tear from my cheek. “Are you happy?”

  I nodded. “So happy.”

  “Good.” His voice was coarse.

  He ran his arms around my waist and pulled me closer until I could feel his fast heartbeat. He rested his forehead on mine, cocooning me in his heat and heady, familiar scent: sandalwood and money.