Page 18 of Lord of Obsession

"To make you what?" I press closer, trapping him against polished wood. The desk groans beneath us, its surface scratched and scarred from years of similar confrontations. "To make you admit what you are? What's in your blood?" My fingers find his tie, using it to keep him still. The silk is soft against my knuckles, incongruous in this temple to violence and power. "Look at you. Moves like that don't come from law school."

Thunder drowns his response as the storm breaks overhead. Rain hammers against bulletproof glass, nature's percussion accompanying our violent dance to the death. Water leaks through the ceiling in one corner, adding to the perpetual damp that breeds mold in thewalls. Every point of contact between us burns with dangerous promise. His pulse races beneath my grip, predator recognizing predator.

"I could kill you." The words roll off his tongue rough with want, his body betraying everything his mind denies. The civilized veneer he's crafted cracks further with each passing second.

"You could try." I lean closer, tasting the lingering notes of scotch and the metallic tinge of blood on my tongue. Our reflections in the rain-streaked window show two figures melded into one dark shape. "But we both know that's not what you really want."

His resistance snaps. Fingers tangle in my hair as he drags me down, our mouths crashing together with more violence than passion. Teeth catch my lower lip, drawing blood. The pain just feeds the hunger building between us. Every touch carries the promise of violence, every grip threatens to turn deadly. He tastes like expensive coffee and rigid control finally breaking.

The security cameras whir to life, recording everything, but neither of us cares. My hand finds his throat again,feeling how his pulse jumps against my palm. His fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks, walking the razor's edge between desire and combat. Around us, the office holds its breath—water dripping, metal creaking, the whole building seeming to lean in to witness this moment of pure truth.

Then his phone shatters the moment, vibrating against the desk with his uncle's ringtone. Reality bites back like a bucket of ice water. He shoves himself away from me, chest heaving as he stares at what we've done. At what he's revealed. His reflection in the grimy window shows a man coming undone—designer suit ruined, hair wild, lips swollen from violence disguised as kisses.

Horror dawns in his eyes as he looks at his hands—hands that just proved every word I said about his true nature. His careful control tries to reassert itself, but we both know it's too late. The mask has irrevocably cracked. The truth has surfaced. In this moment, surrounded by evidence of our world's brutality, he can't pretend to be anything but what he is.

"Sweet dreams, Rafael." I straighten my jacket, satisfaction curling through me at the sight of him so thoroughly undone. A drop ofwater falls from the ceiling, landing on his shoulder and soaking into expensive fabric. "Give your uncle my regards."

He doesn't respond, just grabs his phone and flees. His footsteps echo down the metal stairs, each impact carrying him further from his illusions of normalcy. Behind him, the evidence of his lost control spreads across my office: scattered papers, spilled scotch, and blood on polished wood. The air still crackles with what passed between us, heavy with possibility and threat.

Through the window, I watch his BMW tear out of the lot, tires squealing against wet pavement. The storm mirrors his chaos, wind and rain lashing the harbor into a frenzy. Lightning illuminates the warehouse's industrial wasteland—a perfect metaphor for the darkness we both embrace. His taillights disappear into the night, but the pull between us only grows stronger.

The taste of him lingers on my tongue: expensive scotch and desperate denial, both finally giving way to the truth. His blood and mine mingle in my mouth, a communion of violence and desire that no amount of legal pretense can erase.

He can run back to his clean life and pressed suits. But now he knows. Now we both know.

The monster he cages remembers how to hunt.

SEVEN

RAFAEL

The glass walls of the study room mock my attempts at privacy. Every surface reflects my image back at me: tie perfectly straight, shirt crisp despite trembling hands, hair combed into submission. The illusion of control wrapped in designer clothes that still carry traces of warehouse grime, no matter how many times I've washed them.

My notes spread across the table in their usual precise pattern, but the colored tabs and highlighting blur before my eyes. Twenty-four hours since the warehouse. Since Dario stripped away every defense I've built. My skin still burns where he touched me, violenceand desire tangled until I couldn't tell them apart.

Focus. The civil procedure outline isn't going to write itself.

But as I reach for my fountain pen—chosen for its weight, so similar to other tools I once carried—my fingers brush the bruises hidden beneath starched cotton. Proof that it wasn't just another nightmare. That I let him push me into revealing exactly what I am.

The library's ventilation system hums to life, a white noise that should be soothing but sets my teeth on edge. From my chosen position, I can monitor both entrances while appearing absorbed in my work. The glass walls that once felt like protection now leave me exposed on all sides. Vulnerable. A tactical nightmare that my training won't let me ignore.

Someone walks past—just another student heading for the stacks—but my pulse spikes anyway. I force my grip to loosen on my pen before I snap it. Breathe. Control. The security cameras I mapped show nothing suspicious, but they didn't catch Dario's approach at my apartment either. My phone sits silent,no warnings from the network of cousins and contacts I pretend not to maintain. The quiet feels like the calm before an execution.

My laptop screen reflects movement behind me. I'm half-turned, combat-ready, before I recognize the librarian shelving books two aisles over. The reaction comes too fast, too smooth—more proof that years of careful reconstruction can't erase what they built into my bones. What Dario dragged back to the surface with brutal efficiency.

The civil procedure text stares up at me, its dense paragraphs suddenly meaningless. How many hours have I spent in rooms like this, pretending that understanding the law could somehow protect me from my own nature? The notebook he pilfered contained every strategy I've developed for escaping this life, and he saw through them all. Saw through me.

I straighten my books and other materials on the desk, adjusting their angles with military precision. The familiar ritual should calm my nerves, but instead it feels like another betrayal. Even my study habits reflect the training I can't quite shake: everything aligned, everything controlled, everythingprepared for combat that could begin at any moment.

A door slams somewhere in the library's maze of corridors. I don't flinch, but my body becomes taut, ready for violence that doesn't come. The bruises under my clothes throb in time with my pulse, a reminder of what happens when I let that control slip. When I let him push me into showing what really lives beneath this careful facade.

The afternoon sun slants through windows, painting sharp shadows across my notes. I've rewritten the same sentence four times, each attempt less steady than the last. The civil procedure midterm looms tomorrow, but all I can think about is the weight of his hand on my throat, the taste of blood and scotch on his tongue, the way my body betrayed me by responding to his particular brand of chaos.

Family expectations press down like a physical weight. Uncle Salvatore's voice echoes in my head: "A Valenti who loses control loses everything." But I've already lost it, haven't I? I’ve already let Dario strip away years of careful reconstruction with a few calculated moves. Now I sit in my glass cage,pretending at normalcy while every shadow holds the promise of his return.

The perfect law student's mask feels thinner with each passing second. Soon it will crack completely, and everyone will see what he saw in that warehouse: the killer I can't stop being, no matter how many degrees I earn or how carefully I maintain this charade of legitimacy.

A group of students passes by, laughing about some professor's quirks. Their normalcy feels like a foreign language now, one I've spent years pretending to understand. But after last night, the translation eludes me. All I can hear is Dario's voice in my ear, telling me what I really am. All I can feel is violence humming beneath my skin, waiting for his next move.

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