The Billionaire’s Untamed Obsession

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV

"Are you planning on staring all day, or are you actually going to say something worth the air you’re breathing?" Elín asked, her voice rasping with a dryness that had nothing to do with the Icelandic winter outside the hotel window.

The man standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass of the luxury suite didn’t turn immediately. He remained a silhouette of hard edges and expensive silk, the steam from the bathroom still clinging to his golden hair. When he finally pivoted, the sheer symmetry of his face felt like a physical blow to her chest. He was devastatingly handsome in a way that felt predatory.

"I find that words are usually unnecessary after a night like that," Zonrik Zartholm replied. His voice was like low-frequency thunder, vibrating through the plush carpet and into the soles of Elín’s feet. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on the tangled mess of her dark hair and the defiant set of her jaw. "Though, I suppose I expected a bit more… gratitude."

Elín felt the heat crawl up her neck, a mixture of shame and white-hot fury. She wasn’t a woman who did this. She was a veterinarian who spent her days in muck-stained coveralls, saving broken things at her sanctuary near Hvalfjörður. But yesterday had been a breaking point. Her ex had finally left for London with a woman whose bank account had more zeros than Elín’s had cents, and for one night, she had wanted to be someone else. Someone who didn't care about dying foals or rising grain costs.

"Gratitude?" Elín scoffed, swinging her legs out of the bed. She ignored the dull ache in her lower body and the way the silk sheets felt far too soft against her skin. "You should be the one thanking me. I’m the one who had to endure your 'technique' for three hours."

Zonrik’s eyes narrowed, the blue darkening into the color of a stormy Atlantic. He walked toward the bedside table, his movements fluid and terrifyingly confident. He picked up a leather wallet, flicking it open to reveal a thick stack of currency.

"You were a pleasant distraction, Elín," he said, his tone turning clinical, ice-cold. "Take this. Consider it a bonus for your… enthusiastic participation. Buy yourself something that doesn't smell like a stable."

The sight of the money snapped something inside her. He was treating her like a line item in a ledger, a temporary acquisition to be settled and filed away. She reached for her worn canvas bag, her fingers trembling as she fished out the last of her cash—exactly one hundred and fifty dollars.

With a flick of her wrist, she slapped the bills onto the rumpled duvet right in front of him.

"Keep your charity, Zartholm," she spat, her voice steady despite the hammering of her heart. "Actually, take this. It’s for you."

Zonrik looked down at the meager pile of cash, his expression one of genuine, baffled shock. "What is this?"

"An