Page 12 of Lord of Obsession

"Having second thoughts?" I pause at the threshold, drinking in the way tension rolls off him in waves. "Your precious classmates can't see you here. No need to maintain the act."

He makes a noise that falls short of laughter. "You think you're the first person to try this? To push me into showing my hand?"

"No." I turn to face him fully. "I'm just the first one who knows exactly what buttons to push."

The hallway narrows here, forcing him closer than his careful boundaries usually allow. Light from the wall fixture catches his eyes, turning them almost amber. Dangerous. A timer clicks somewhere in the ventilation system, and the temperature notches higher—another detail I arranged, designed to make his expensive shirt cling against his frame just right.

Condensation beads on the exposed pipes overhead, marking time with each drop. The sound echoes in our private space, a countdown to something inevitable. His breath comes faster now, though he tries to hide it.

"You've done your research." His voicestays steady, but his accent bleeds through more with each word. "Studied my routines and habits. Tell me, does your father know you're obsessing over a Valenti?"

The question hits harder than it should. I close the remaining distance between us, backing him against the textured wall. The brick catches at his shirt, pulling the fabric taut across his shoulders. "Does your uncle know you still move like a soldier when you think no one's watching?"

His chest rises and falls with carefully controlled breaths. With us this close, I catch the scent of his cologne mixing with something darker—arousal or anger or both. The gap between us shrinks to nothing as I press one hand firmly against the wall beside his head. Paint flakes beneath my fingers, old red brick showing through like a wound.

"Someone's always watching," he says, but makes no move to push me away. "You should know that better than most."

"Let them watch." My other hand finds his hip, feeling the muscle coiled tight beneath designer denim. "Let them see what happens when you stop pretending to be something you're not."

The music changes again, bass penetrating even these thick walls. A door slams somewhere above, the sound carrying through rusted ductwork. Rafael's pulse jumps beneath my fingers where they rest against his neck. One wrong move—or one exactly right move—and this explodes into violence.

"What do you want from me?" The question comes out rough, desperate.

I lean closer, letting him feel the gun holstered at my hip. "I want to see what's under all that careful control. The killer you keep caged. The Valenti blood you try so hard to deny."

His hands clench at his sides. Even now, he's fighting it, the urge to strike, to dominate, to show me exactly what he's capable of. The hallway feels smaller and charged with possibility.

"You're playing a dangerous game." His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up. "Testing boundaries you don't understand."

"I understand them perfectly." I shift my knee between his thighs, trapping him more fully against the wall. "I understand that every fiber of your being is screamingto put me down. To show me exactly what those hands of yours were trained to do."

His breath catches. The space between us disappears entirely as I press closer, feeling the heat of him through layers of expensive fabric. His resistance wars with desire. The desire to fight, to prove himself, to give in to whatever this is building between us.

"You think you know me." His voice drops lower, dangerous. "You think you can read me like one of your targets."

"I know you better than you know yourself." My lips brush his ear, and I feel the tiny hairs stand to attention. "I know what keeps you up at night. What you dream about when all that perfect control slips away."

The tension peaks, then crystallizes. His hands finally move, coming up to grip my shoulders—to push me away or pull me closer, even he doesn't seem sure. I can feel the strength in his fingers from all the years of training he pretends don't exist. The moment stretches to infinity, live electricity rippling between us. Every point of contact between us burns with possibility or threat.

At this point, they're the same thing.

Steam hisses through an overhead pipe,adding to the suffocating heat. A door opens and closes somewhere in the maze of corridors, footsteps echoing then fading. But we remain frozen in our private war, neither willing to break first.

Then someone laughs further down the hallway, the sound breaking through our private darkness. Rafael's mask slips back into place, but not before I catch the flash of raw hunger in his eyes. His fingers dig into my shoulders once, hard enough to bruise, before he shoves me back.

Game, set, match.

For now.

FIVE

RAFAEL

The legal case brief blurs before my eyes for the third time tonight. My apartment stretches silent around me, all clean lines and empty spaces designed to project success, legitimacy, control. But I can't focus on the words. Not when every shadow holds memories of the club—of Dario's voice in my ear, his hands on my wrist, the way my body betrayed me by responding to his proximity.

I shove back from my desk, the chair's wheels silent against the plush carpet. My reflection fragments across the floor-to-ceiling windows, multiplying my restless movement into a dozen scattered pieces. Beyond the glass, Montcove's lights glitter against the darkharbor. The view cost extra, but tonight it feels like exposure rather than luxury.

The security panel by my door glows a steady green, signaling systems are armed and functioning. I've checked it six times in the past hour. The readings never change: perimeter secure, cameras active, all sensors clear. They’re technical barriers that suddenly feel meaningless against the real threat—the way my control keeps slipping, how I can't stop remembering the heat of Dario's breath against my skin.

---