The Don's Deadliest Obsession

Nerissa’s POV

I am beginning to think I might actually enjoy living in this house.

I stand on a ladder in the middlr of the workspace Lysander promised me, watching three painters bring my vision to life. The walls are a soft, creamy beige, with one accent wall in a muted rose shade that makes the entire room feel warm and inviting. I’ve chosen white shelves, gold accents, and enough natural lighting to make every skincare producr look like it belongs in an expensive advertisement.

There is still plenty to do, but I can already picture it.

”Could you mix a little more of the rose shade for that section?” I ask, pointing toward the wall on my right. ”I want it slightly deeper than the rest, but not too dark. Something that looks soft in natural light.”

One of the painters nods.

”Of course, ma’am.”

I lean sideways to get a better look at the wall, gripping the ladder with one hand.

”Not too much, though. I don’t want it looking like a nursery.”

The man chuckles.

”Understood.”

I smile, pleased with how everything is coming together.

Then the door opens.

”All of you, get out.”

The voice is so sharp that I nearly lose my footing.

I clutch the ladder, my heart jumping into my throat, and turn gingerly toward the doorway.

Lysander stands there, dressed in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His expression is unreadable, but there is something in his eyes that tells me he is already in a terrible mood.

Of course he is.

God forbid I enjoy five peaceful minutes in this house without the Don of Darkness appearing to ruin them.

I look at the painters, who have gone completely still.

”Um...” I begin. ”We’re actually working on something here.”

”Get. Out.”

Lysander doesn’t even look at me.

”I’ll send your payment. Don’t come back here.”

I stare at him.

What the hell?

The painters exchange uncertain glances, clearly wondering whether they should listen to the man paying them or the woman who has been directing their work all morning.

”Sir, we’re almost finished with this section,” one of them tries.

”And I said get out.”

His voice drops dangerously.

”Now.”

They don’t need to be told a third time.

Within minutes, they are gathering their tools and heading for the door. One of them offers me an apologetic smile on his way out and I give him a helpless shrug.

The door shuts behind them.

I slowly turn my head toward my husband.

”Are you insane?”

He finally looks at me.

”Excuse me?”

”They’re almost done!”

”And I’ll have other people come and finish it.”

”Why? They know exactly what I want!”

”Preferably women.”

I blink.

Then I blink some more.

”What?”

His jaw tightens.

”They were looking under your skirt.”

I look down at my outfit. I’m wearing a short, fitted skirt with a loose blouse tucked into the waistband. Yes, the skirt is short, but I have shorts underneath it.

I look back at him.

”Stupid perverts.”

I roll my eyes.

”But I had shorts on!”

”And?”

”And nothing was showing!”

His expression darkens.

”That doesn’t make it acceptable.”

I glance down at the ladder.

”Can you help me get down?”

He stares at me and I think he’s going to tell me to jump.

Instead, he sighs.

”You’re going to be the death of me, little riot.”

”Get in line.”

He reaches for me, placing his hands around my legs to lift me off the ladder.

I grip his shoulders instinctively as he brings me down. But when the ladder shifts slightly beneath my feet, I slide against his body, and my legs wrap around his torso to keep myself from falling.

Oh.

Oh, no.

My hands tighten around his shoulders, and I become painfully aware of just how close we are. This position presses my core to his dick.

His chest is firm beneath my palms. I can smell his cologne, something dark and expensive that seems to cling to him.

And his face?

Way too close.

My body chooses that exact moment to betray me, sending a warm, unwelcome spark through my stomach and lower.

I mentally slap myself.

Get a grip, Nerissa.

This man is insufferable. He is controlling, arrogant, infuriating, and has the emotional communication skills of a particularly stubborn brick.

He also happens to be insanely attractive.

Both things can be true.

Lysander mutters something under his breath, his hands tightening briefly around my legs.

I catch a curse and my cheeks grow warm.

He lowers me until my feet touch the floor.

The moment I am steady, I release him and practically leap backward, putting as much distance between us as the room allows.

I clear my throat.

”So, um...”

His eyes follow me and I suddenly find the wall fascinating.

”I got your gift yesterday.”

His gaze shifts over my face, searching for something I cannot quite identify.

He drags a hand through his hair.

”I understand that might have been a little too much.” ℯℯ𝘭.

I stare at him.

A little too much? He sent me a severed penis in a gift box! What exactly qualifies as a lot in his world? A whole body delivered to my doorstep?

”No, no. It’s...” I pause, searching for the right words.

Horrifying? Disturbing? Possibly the strangest thing anyone has ever done for me?

I settle on the only answer that feels remotely appropriate.

”It’s okay.”

He raises an eyebrow.

I smile sweetly.

”I planted it under the roses outside my bedroom window.”

Silence.

I continue before he can recover.

”More manure for the flowers.”

For one glorious second, Lysander Sanchez, the terrifying Don looks utterly speechless.

Then he laughs.

The sound is unexpected, and it catches me so off guard that I forget to be offended by how much I enjoy hearing it.

He shakes his head, looking at me with something dangerously close to admiration.

”I guess I underestimated you.”

”You have no idea.”

His smile lingers for another moment before his expression grows serious again.

”Thank you,” I say quietly.

He looks at me.

”For what?”

I hesitate, then force myself to meet his eyes.

”For doing that for me. And for the pictures. I got those too.”

I don’t know what he expected me to say. Perhaps he thought I would be horrified by the gift.

The truth is, I don’t know how I feel about any of it.

But I know what it means that someone took what happened to me seriously enough to act.

I swallow.

”Did you...” I begin, then hesitate. ”Did you look at them?”

His expression hardens.

”The pictures?”

I nod.

”No.I didn’t look at them.”

Something inside my chest loosens.

”Thank you.”

He gives a single nod, as though he understands that the answer matters more than I can explain.

Then he glances around the room.

”I’ll have other people come and finish this.”

Then he turns toward the door.

I watch him go, still trying to understand how a man can be so infuriating one moment and unexpectedly considerate the next.

His hand reaches the door handle thn he pauses.

”Oh, and we have a gala to attend tomorrow.”

I frown.

”A what?”

”A gala.” He glances over his shoulder. ”I’ll have a dress delivered to you.”

Before I can ask a single question, he opens the door and walks out, leaving me standing in the middle of my unfinished workspace.