Page 10 of Lord of Obsession

Time to start the next phase.

One text will set it in motion, unleashinganother carefully planned series of events designed to strip away more of his defenses. My thumb hovers over the phone as I watch him take another measured sip of his drink, his eyes still scanning the crowd like the soldier he pretends he isn't.

Beautiful prey, thinking he can escape what's in his blood. What's in both our blood.

I press send. Let's see how long that control lasts when the real game begins.

The crowd parts as I descend from the VIP section, their animal instinct warning them away. Even drunk college kids can sense a predator in their midst. My security detail maintains their distance, watching without watching as I stalk my prey through the press of bodies.

Rafael tenses the moment I hit the main floor; he doesn't need to see me to know I'm coming. His study group has migrated closer to the dance floor, their legal discussions dissolving into drunken debate about some professor's grading curve. He stands slightly apart, that perfect posture screaming awareness of every movement around him.

A sports scholarship kid—linebacker, judging by the build—stumbles into my path.One look sends him scrambling back, useless apologies dying on his lips. Word spreads fast in places like this. Everyone suddenly has business elsewhere, leaving a clear channel between me and my target.

Rafael's shoulders tighten further as the distance between us closes. He keeps his back to me, a deliberate show of disinterest that only highlights how attuned he is to my approach. His fingers tap against his glass in that telltale rhythm, not in time with the pulsing bass, but an older beat. The same Sicilian folk song I had the DJ play when he walked in.

"Your friend doesn't party much, does he?" I ask one of his study partners. Thomas, trust fund, cocaine habit he thinks daddy doesn't know about.

The boy startles, recognition and fear flooding his face. Everyone in Valmont's criminal justice program knows the Greco name.

"I... uh..." Thomas swallows hard, looking between me and Rafael. "He's just focused. You know, with the Anderson case analysis due."

I smile, sharp and hungry, and he trails off. "Must be hard," I say, pitching my voice to carry over the music, "being friends withsomeone who's always holding back. Always hiding what he really is."

Rafael's spine goes rigid. The rest of his study group shifts uncomfortably, sensing the undercurrent but not understanding it. Laura’s hand slips from his arm as she edges away, her social instincts finally kicking in.

"Maybe we should get another round," one of the other guys suggests, already retreating toward the bar. The group follows like silent sheep, leaving Rafael alone in their wake. Smart kids, finally reading the room.

He still hasn't turned to face me, but his reflection in the mirrored wall shows the muscle jumping in his jaw. The strobing lights paint his face in alternating shadows and harsh colors, highlighting the warrior bones beneath his civilized veneer.

"Subtle," he says, voice carrying that slight accent he can never quite hide when he's angry. "Threatening my classmates now?"

I step closer, enjoying how the movement ripples through him. "Just making conversation. Isn't that what normal college kids do?"

His humorless laugh rings hollow. "Is that what this is about? Playing college student?"

"No." I move to his left, knowing he favorsthat side for defense. "This is about watching you try to play normal while everything in you screams for something else."

The dance floor churns around us, but a bubble of space has formed. Even drunk young adults can sense the violence building between us. The DJ transitions into something with a harder beat, bass thumping like artillery fire.

"I told you to stay away from me." He finally turns, and fuck, the raw fury in his eyes is beautiful.

"You did." I let my smile sharpen. "But we both know that's not what you really want."

His fingers tighten on his glass, tendons standing out like wire under skin. One wrong move and that crystal becomes a weapon. We both know exactly how many ways he could use it.

"What I want," he says, each word precise despite the growing Italian lilt, "is to finish my degree without complications."

"Liar," I growl and step fully into his space now, close enough to catch his scent: expensive cologne barely masking the killer underneath. "What you want is to stop pretending.Stop holding back. Stop playing at being something you're not."

The bass drops, and in that momentary silence, I hear his breath catch. Got him.

The music shifts again, something with a Sicilian baseline twisted through modern beats. Around us, the dance floor moves like a tide, but our bubble of space remains untouched. Sweat and perfume hang heavy in the air, mixing with top-shelf liquor and desperation. The kind of place that pretends at elegance while hiding darker purposes. Like Rafael, wearing his expensive clothes over a practiced killer's instincts.

A bottle shatters somewhere behind us. Rafael's shoulders tense, but he doesn't look away from me. Doesn't break eye contact. His training's too good for that, no matter how much he tries to bury it.

The strobing lights catch the gold chain at his throat, a family piece he probably tells himself he wears out of tradition rather than allegiance. Each flash of light reveals another detail I want to destroy: the careful way he holds himself, the precise distance he maintains, the controlled rhythm of his breathing.

College kids crush in around our pocketof space, driven by the pulsing music, but none dare enter the invisible boundary between predator and prey. The heat rises with their movement, and I catch the first bead of sweat tracing Rafael's neck, his perfect composure beginning to crack.

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