Ruthless Obsession

Anya Romanovski was a lie wrapped in glitter. She sparkled in the dimmest of places, a light that could blind you if you weren’t careful. But Kyle Morozov was careful. He saw past the shine, straight to the darkness beneath.

He’d learned long ago that glitter hides the sharpest edges. And Anya’s edges were razor-sharp.

Their hate was the only thing real. It pulsed between them, hot and alive, keeping them both on the edge. Every time they met, it was a war—a clash of wills, a battle of pride.

She smiled like she didn’t care. But he saw the fear in her eyes, the way her breath hitched when he got too close. His presence stirred something in her—a shadow, a memory, a weakness. She kept him on edge, but he could sense the way she tried to control the panic he made her feel.

He was immune to her charm, the sparkle that fooled everyone else. But she wasn’t immune to him. His cold, calculated touch made her flinch, made her remember things she wanted to forget. He wasn’t just another enemy—he was a ghost from her past, a reminder of everything she’d buried deep.

But even as she hated him, she was drawn to him. It was sick, twisted, wrong in every way. But it was there, like a thread pulling them closer with every encounter.

The night they crossed the line, everything changed.

A stolen kiss, desperate and dark. A threat whispered like a promise. She hated him for making her feel alive, for making her want something she shouldn’t. He hated her for being a weakness he couldn’t control.

They were both poison, both fire. And when the flames finally met, they knew they’d destroy each other.

But in a world like theirs, destruction was inevitable. The only question was who would burn first.

************

Excerpt

His breath was hot against my neck, searing through the thin veil of control I clung to. I hated how close he was, how his presence unravelled me. My pulse quickened, betraying me, pounding against the skin where his lips hovered, threatening to touch.

“Kyle,” I warned, but my voice was a whisper that barely reached my own ears.

He didn’t respond with words. He never needed to. His hand slid up my thigh, slow, deliberate, like he owned me. And maybe, in this moment, he did. I felt the heat of his palm burn through the fabric, branding me, claiming territory he had no right to claim.

“Do you want me to stop?” His voice was dark like a velvet knife slicing through the air. He knew the answer, could feel it in the way my body leaned into his touch, desperate and weak.

I hated him for it. Hated myself more.

“Yes,” I lied, the word slipping out with a ragged breath.

He chuckled, a low, dangerous sound that sent shivers down my spine. “Liar.”

His fingers brushed higher, a feather-light touch that left a trail of fire in its wake. My back arched, betraying the storm raging inside me. I wanted to push him away, to scream that he had no right to do this to me, to make me feel this way. But I was trapped, caught in the web of my own desire.

“You think you’re in control,” I spat, desperate to regain some semblance of power. Something I could hold onto.

To my surprise, his lips finally found my neck, pressing a kiss so gentle it almost broke me thousands of times. “You’ve never had control, Anya. Not with me.”

Anya.

He called me Anya. And not sweetheart. And not Anochka.

My breath hitched and a soft gasp slipped through my lips as his mouth moved lower, tasting the pulse that raced beneath my skin. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, trying to ground myself in anything but him. But it was useless. He was everywhere, his touch, his scent, his darkness enveloping me, drowning me.

“I hate you,” I whispered though it was a confession wrapped in a curse.

He pulled back, just enough to look into my eyes, his gaze piercing through the walls I’d built. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m the only one who can handle your hate.”

His lips crushed against mine, and I shattered. The fire inside me blazed, consuming everything in its path. I kissed him back, pouring all my anger, all my frustration, all my fear into it. It was brutal, raw, and I reveled in the violence of it. This was how we were—destructive, chaotic, a force that neither of us could control.

His hands roamed my body, rough and demanding, and I burned under his touch. I pushed against him, not to escape, but to bring him closer, to close the gap that separated us. Our bodies collided, a clash of wills and desires, each fighting for dominance, each unwilling to surrender.

But in that moment, as his hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, as his lips devoured mine like he was starving, I realized the truth.

We weren’t just fighting each other. We were fighting ourselves.

And we were both losing.