Page 4 of Lord of Obsession

"I see someone playing a very dangerous game," I continue, my voice pitched for his ears alone. "Someone pretending he can just walk away from what he is. What he was born to be." I let my eyes drag over him, taking in every detail of his carefully maintained facade. "But blood always tells, doesn't it? And yours is screaming right now."

The rest of the gym's morning crowd parts around us like water around stones, their instincts warning them away from the violence simmering beneath our quiet conversation. Rafael's trying to find an exit strategy that won't look like retreat. I can practically see the options cycling behind his eyes, each one requiring him to either back down or engage. Each choice a potential crack in his precious redemption story.

"You know what I find interesting?" I lean closer, pitching my voice low enough that he has to stay still to hear it. "The way you write your notes in the library. All those neat little color-coded tabs. But your handwriting, now that's interesting. Tight. Controlled. Like someone trained to write reports about their kills."

His breath catches. Just slightly. Justenough to feed the hunger growing in my chest.

"You've been in my study space." The words come out clipped, that cultured accent he's cultivated fraying at the edges.

"I've been everywhere you've been, Rafael." I let my smile sharpen. "Your coffee shop. Your running trail along the river. That fancy apartment building with the shit security." I tap my fingers against the weight machine, a deliberate echo of last night's gesture in the library. "Amazing what you miss when you're so focused on playing normal."

Other students filter past us toward the locker room, their morning workouts finished. Rafael's window for a clean escape is closing. His next class starts in fifteen minutes; I know his schedule better than he does at this point. He'll have to hit the showers soon if he wants to maintain his perfect attendance record.

"Most people," he says, each word carved from ice, "would call that stalking."

"Most people would call you a traitor." I cock my head, studying the flush rising up his neck. "Walking away from family. From legacy. From everything you were born to be." My fingers itch to grabhim, to feel the strength he's trying so hard to hide. "Tell me, does your uncle know you're working out like this? Training that body you pretend is just for show?"

"We're done here." He moves to step around me, but I shift just enough to force him to brush against me if he wants to get past.

"See, that's where you're wrong." I breathe in his scent—sweat and fury and something uniquely Rafael that makes my blood sing. "We're just getting started. You and me? This is going to be fun."

"I don't play games." But there's a tremor in his voice now. Barely there. Beautiful.

"No? Then what do you call this whole act?" I gesture at his expensive workout gear, the pristine gym, the business students doing half-assed sets nearby. "All this legitimate bullshit. Like you could ever be one of them." I lean in closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. "I saw you clock every exit when you walked in. Saw you categorize every potential threat. Those instincts don't just disappear because you decided to play lawyer."

His hands clench at his sides. Suchperfect tells, if you know where to look. And I've made studying Rafael Valenti my favorite fucking hobby.

"The only threat here is you," he says, voice dropping into something darker. Something real.

"There he is." My grin feels wild, hungry. "There's the killer under all that polish. Come on, Rafael. Show me more. Show me what you're really made of."

The gym manager's approaching now, phone in hand. Campus security won't be far behind. Rafael sees them, too, and his weight shifts slightly, combat-ready despite his careful mask. The violence between us draws tighter, a wire about to snap.

"You don't know anything about me," he says, but the words lack conviction. He knows better. Knows I've seen too much.

"I know everything about you." I drop my voice lower, making him strain to hear. "I know you wake up at 5:30 every morning and check your security system twice. I know you take your coffee black with one sugar. I know you sit in your car sometimes after class, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, fighting the urge to drivesomewhere—anywhere—else." I let each detail land like a knife between his ribs. "But mostly? I know what you are. What you're trying so hard not to be. And, baby? You're failing spectacularly."

The muscle in his jaw ticks, another perfect tell. His eyes dart to the approaching manager, then back to me. The calculation is beautiful to watch: if he stays, he risks a scene that'll shatter his carefully maintained image. If he retreats to the locker room, he's giving me exactly what I want. Either way, I win.

"Walk away," he says, but there's a thread of uncertainty in his voice now. The kind that makes me want to pull harder, just to see what unravels.

"After you." I step back just enough to give him space, a mocking invitation. "Don't forget your towel. Wouldn't want you getting cold in the showers."

The threat lands exactly as intended. He doesn't quite flinch, but his breathing shifts, becoming more deliberate. More controlled. Always so fucking controlled. But not for long. Not if I have anything to say about it

The manager's still hovering at the edge of my peripheral vision, phone pressed to his ear. Campus security's response time is shit—another detail I've filed away during my surveillance. Still, Rafael knows his window for a dignified exit is closing. When he finally moves, it's with that warrior's grace he can't quite suppress. Each step measured, ensuring he doesn't brush against me as he passes.

I give him thirty seconds' head start. Just enough time to think he might have some control over what happens next. The hallway to the locker room stretches long and white, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. His footsteps echo against the tile, and I match my pace to his rhythm, letting him hear me following. Letting the anticipation build.

Steam fills the locker room like fog, thick enough to blur the edges of things. Perfect. The space is empty except for us; everyone else cleared out when the tension peaked on the gym floor. Smart of them. What's coming isn't meant for an audience.

Water runs in one of the shower stalls. Rafael's still trying to maintain his routine, still trying to pretend this is just another morning workout. But I catch him watching my reflection in the steamed mirrors, tracking my movements with the kind of situationalawareness they teach Valenti children before they can walk.

I shed my jacket, letting him see the gun holstered at my hip. His eyes lock onto it for a fraction of a second—another tell. Another crack in his facade. He doesn't carry anymore, not here in his squeaky-clean college life. Must feel naked without the weight of steel against his body.

"You're in the wrong locker room," he says, voice tight as he pulls workout clothes from his bag. Everything is perfectly folded, because of course it fucking is.

"Am I?" I move closer, enjoying how the steam makes everything feel more intimate. More dangerous. "Way I see it, this is exactly where I'm supposed to be."

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