Page 11 of Lord of Obsession

"You're not fooling anyone," I tell him, voice pitched under the bass. "I can feel the violence in you begging to surface. To breathe. To remind youexactlywhat you are."

His throat works as he swallows, that gold chain shifting against his tanned skin. Above us, my security detail watches from the VIP section, ready to ensure no one interrupts what's coming next. The private room in the back waits, equipped for whatever form this breaking point takes.

Let's see what it takes to make him break.

The bar's polished mahogany gleams under artfully dim lights as Rafael retreats, maintaining that precise distance between us. His study group has disappeared completely, spooked prey abandoning one of their own to the predator. He orders water, his voice steady despite the palpable tension thrumming through him. The bartender's handsshake slightly as he pours, picking up on the dangerous current in the air.

The crowd around us shifts and flows like a tide, but maintains that instinctive buffer of space. Even these drunk college kids know better than to come too close. A bass line pulses through hidden speakers, heavy enough to rattle the crystal glasses behind the bar.

"You're slipping," I say, claiming the space next to him. "Your little friends noticed. Did you see how quickly they ran when they sensed what you really are?"

His knuckles whiten around his glass. "They left because you're terrorizing them."

"No." I lean closer, dropping my voice. "They left because they finally saw through your act. They sensed the killer wearing student clothes."

The mirror behind the bar reflects his struggle, his perfect mask cracking at the edges, letting the violence bleed through. Under the designer shirt, his muscles tighten with barely suppressed anger. The bartender makes himself scarce, his animal instincts warning him away from what's building between us.

"Tell me," I continue, watching his reflection. "Do they know about your family's business? About what those hands of yours were trained to do?" I reach for his wrist, enjoying how he tenses in response but doesn't pull away. "About the blood in your veins?"

"Back off." The words emerge with that slight Sicilian accent he can never quite hide when he's angry.

Beautiful.

I trace my fingers along his pulse point, feeling it race beneath expensive cotton. "Or what? You'll show everyone here exactly what you're capable of? Break my jaw, maybe? Slam my head into this lovely bar?" My smile sharpens. "Go ahead. Show them the real Rafael Valenti."

The music shifts, the bass dropping low enough to vibrate through the floor. His breath catches as I step closer, eliminating the careful distance he maintains. Heat radiates off him—fury and something darker, something he's trying so desperately to deny.

"This isn't the place," he grits out, but his eyes betray him. They’re dark with violence and desire.

"Then let's find somewheremore private," I suggest as I gesture toward the back hallway, where the regular security cameras have been conveniently disabled. "Somewhere you can stop pretending to be something you're not."

Students press around us at the bar, ordering overpriced drinks with daddy's money, but none dare enter the charged space between us. Even the most drunk of the college kids can sense when they're too close to something dangerous. The bartender stays at the far end, pretending not to watch.

Rafael's control visibly frays as I lean in, my lips nearly brushing his ear. "Come on, killer. Show me what's under all that polish."

A muscle twitches rhythmically in his jaw as the light catches his face, highlighting the ruthless warrior beneath his carefully curated mask. He's never looked more like what he is: a Valenti trying to cage the violence bred into his bones.

"Fuck you," he breathes, the curse slipping out in Italian.

"There he is." I grab his wrist again, feeling the tension thrumming through him. "There's the real you. Don’t hide it."

The crowd around us thins further, sensing the building storm. A girl in a reddress stumbles nearby, catching herself on the bar before she falls on her face. Rafael's hand twitches toward her—always the protector—but he stops himself before he can blunt her contact with the solid wood bar. Can't risk showing those instincts here, not in his carefully constructed normal world. The girl's friend quickly pulls her away, both of them sensing something dangerous in our shared space.

"Private room's this way," I murmur, tugging gently at his wrist. "Unless you're scared of what might happen when you stop pretending."

The lights catch the gold of his family ring, the one he tries to pass off as simple jewelry to his classmates. We both know better. Both know the weight of legacy it represents. His eyes meet mine in the bar mirror, dark with promise and threat. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice.

Sweat darkens the collar of his expensive shirt, whether from heat or tension or both. The air between us feels electric, charged with violence and something darker. His pulse races under my fingers, betraying everything his careful composuretries to hide.

Then he moves, following me toward the darkened hallway where no witnesses will see whatever comes next.

Perfect. Let the real game begin.

The private hallway stretches dark and narrow, all sounds dampened to a distant thrum. Each step takes us further from witnesses and from Rafael's carefully constructed world of law books and normalcy. My security detail knows to keep everyone else away; this moment belongs to us alone.

Exposed brick catches the dim light from artfully placed sconces, casting strange shadows as Rafael follows me deeper into the club's restricted area. His footsteps are silent, his old training showing through despite his best efforts. Some habits can't be unlearned, no matter how hard he tries to bury them beneath designer clothes and legal texts. I lead him past locked private rooms with heavy doors until we reach the last one, specially prepared for tonight.

A low vibration pulses through the floorboards, the club's foundation barely containing the bass from above. Down here, the air hangs thick with possibility and old secrets. The corridor narrows gradually, anarchitectural trap designed to create intimacy—or conflict, depending on the players.

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