Dangerous Obsession: A Love too dangerous to keep

Chapter Two

Freya-

“What the f**k?” I screamed, stumbling back from the door so fast my heel caught the rug. I nearly tripped, catching myself against the dresser as my heart tried to break out of my ribcage.

The man swayed in the hallway, soaked through from the rain. His shirt clung to his chest, torn at the shoulder, and blood trailed down from a gash at his temple. His head dipped like he was about to collapse.

Panic ripped through me. My first thought was serial killer. My second was, Oh my God, Lily actually cursed me into one of those romance-novel scenarios. And my third, stupidly enough, was , Damn, even bleeding and half-dead, he’s gorgeous.

Because, let's be real honest with ourselves, he was.

“Stay back!” I blurted, my voice higher than I intended. “I swear I’ll scream!”

He didn’t answer. He just leaned heavily against the doorframe, his chest heaving like each breath was a battle.

This was insane. If I was anywhere close to being normal then I should have slammed the door shut, called hotel security, called anyone. Done anything that'd have him far away from me. But nope. There was something that rooted me in place, the way his eyes lifted to meet mine. They were sharp, stormy, haunted—eyes that had seen too much. And for the tiniest second, I swore they softened.

“Elena…” he rasped.

Huh...? Elena, who was that?

I blinked. “What did you just say?”

“Elena,” he whispered again, then staggered forward as if his body no longer listened to him.

Instinct screamed at me to slam the door. But instinct also shoved me forward, my hands catching his arm just as his knees buckled. He was heavy, solid, his body radiating cold from the rain.

“s**t, s**t, s**t,” I muttered, half dragging, half guiding him into the room. His weight nearly toppled me, but adrenaline made me stronger than I had any right to be. I managed to haul him toward the bed, lowering him onto the edge.

The second his body hit the mattress, he let out a low groan, his head tilting back.

My mind screamed: *You’re insane, Freya. Absolutely insane. This is how women die in horror movies*.

And yet—I couldn’t just throw him back out into the storm.

Grabbing the first-aid kit the hotel had tucked into the bathroom cabinet, I fumbled with the latch, my hands shaking. Cotton pads, antiseptic, bandages—it wasn’t much, but it would have to do.

I perched on the edge of the bed, close enough to see the cut at his temple clearly now. It was deep but not life-threatening. Still, it bled enough to paint streaks down his cheek.

“Okay, stranger,” I muttered under my breath, dabbing at the wound with trembling hands. “If you turn out to be a psycho, I’m blaming Lily for manifesting this mess into my life.”

His eyes flickered open at my touch, startling me.

For a moment, I thought he’d lunge, grab me. Instead, he just… looked at me. Really looked. Like he was peeling back layers with a single glance.

“Elena,” he whispered again, softer this time.

I stiffened. “My name’s not Elena,” I snapped, more defensive than I meant to sound for some strange reason.

He blinked slowly, confusion clouding his gaze. Then he winced as I pressed too hard on the wound.

“Sorry,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure why.

Minutes passed in silence except for his uneven breathing and the storm rattling against the window. I cleaned and bandaged as best I could, the intimacy of it surreal. Here I was, tending to a stranger who looked like he belonged in a luxury magazine instead of bleeding in a random hotel room.

Who the hell was he?

Before I could ask, a sharp sound cracked outside—the unmistakable thud of heavy boots in the hallway.

I froze, the cotton pad clutched in my hand.

The man’s body tensed instantly, every muscle coiled tight beneath the soaked fabric of his shirt. His eyes sharpened, cutting to the door.

“What was that?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. He just lifted a hand, signaling me to stay quiet.

The boots drew closer, echoing against the wooden floorboards. Stopping. Starting again. Pausing right outside my door.

My breath lodged in my throat.

A knock. Slow. Heavy.

I jumped, dropping the cotton pad.

The man reached for my wrist suddenly, his grip surprisingly strong despite his weakened state. “Don’t answer,” he hissed, his voice low but commanding.

I swallowed hard, nodding quickly.

The knock came again, louder this time. Then a voice. Male. Deep. “We know he’s in there.”

Every hair on my body stood on end.

Who the hell was “we”? And who exactly was this bleeding stranger I’d just dragged into my room?

The man’s grip on my wrist tightened, almost desperate now. His gaze locked with mine, fierce, urgent. “Please,” he rasped. “Don’t open it.”

Fear surged through me, colliding with confusion and with the faint but undeniable pull in my chest toward this stranger. My heart hammered as another round of knocks rattled the door, followed by a silence heavy enough to crush me.

Minutes stretched like hours. Then, finally, the sound of retreating footsteps faded down the hall.

I exhaled shakily, only realizing I’d been holding my breath when my lungs burned.

The man released my wrist slowly, his hand trembling. He sagged back against the headboard, his eyes closing like the effort of staying awake was too much.

I sat frozen beside him, staring at the door, my pulse still racing.

What the hell had I just gotten myself into?

My gaze shifted back to the stranger. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, his jaw clenched even in exhaustion.

And in that moment, I wasn’t just scared of the men outside.

I was scared of him.

Because something told me my life had just collided with his in a way I couldn’t walk away from.

I stared at him, my eyes wide, fear curling tight in my stomach at who might be hunting him… and what it meant for me.