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 evaluation," Elín said, crossing her arms over her chest, standing as tall as she could while wrapped in a borrowed robe. "You’re a beautiful specimen, I’ll give you that. But your endurance is lacking, and your bedside manner is frankly amateur. I’d suggest you offer a steep discount until you’ve put in more practice hours. Maybe then you’ll be worth the full price."

The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush. Zonrik’s face went from pale to a dangerous, burning crimson.

"You have no idea who you’re talking to," he hissed, the words vibrating with a power that made the glass in the room hum.

"I know exactly who you are," Elín lied, moving toward the door with every ounce of bravado she possessed. "You’re a man who thinks everything is for sale. But you’re a poor investment. Don't call me. Actually, don't even look in my direction if we ever cross paths again."

She didn't wait for his response. She bolted. As the heavy suite door clicked shut behind her, she heard a muffled, guttural roar of "Damn it!" from inside. She ran down the hallway, her lungs burning, telling herself she was free. She didn't have to care about him. She had a sanctuary to save, a son to get back to, and a life that didn't involve golden-haired monsters in silk robes.

Elín Demánsdóttir’s POV

The air at the Haven Sanctuary always smelled of salt, wet earth, and the sweet, dusty scent of timothy hay. It was the only place Elín felt she could truly breathe, even if every breath was heavy with the weight of debt.

She was kneeling in the dirt, checking the bandages on a rescued fox, when her phone buzzed incessantly in her pocket. She sighed, pulling it out with a gloved hand.

"Elín, please tell me you’re coming tonight," her mother, Sigríður, said before Elín could even say hello. "It’s your Uncle John’s sixtieth. The whole family is going to be at the St. Ólafur Medical Center’s gala afterward. It’s important."

"Mom, I have a sanctuary to run," Elín replied, adjusting the fox’s carrier. "I can’t spend five hours in a dress pretending I don't want to punch Dad in the throat."

"Elín, please. Your father and Freya will be there, yes, but Uncle John helped us when your father walked out with all our savings. We owe him this respect."

Elín closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against the cool wire of the enclosure. The memory of her mother kneeling on the floor, begging her father not to take the last of their rent money while his mistress waited in the car, flashed through her mind. It was the wound that never fully healed, the reason Elín fought so hard for every stray animal—because she knew what it felt like to be discarded.

"Fine," Elín muttered. "I’ll go. But I’m leaving early."

She hung up and headed toward the main barn, where Ala Lind was busy organizing the medical supplies. Ala was more than a vet tech; she was the sister Elín had chosen, the only person who knew the truth about the night Charles was conceived.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost," Ala said, not looking up from her clipboard. "Or did that billionaire from the hotel finally track you down?"

"I told you, Ala, it was a one-time mistake," Elín said, grabbling a bag of feed. "I paid him a hundred and fifty dollars to stay away from me. It’s handled."

Ala finally looked up, a smirk playing on her lips. "I still can't believe you tipped a billionaire for 'poor performance.' You realize that man probably owns half the corridor between here and Copenhagen, right?"

"I don't care if he owns the moon," Elín snapped, though a shiver of anxiety traced her spine. "He’s a developer. He’s the opposite of everything I am. He destroys things to build monuments to his own ego. I save things."