Page 14 of Lord of Obsession

"Get out." The words emerge in Italian, my mother tongue claiming me despite my best efforts. The syllables taste like home and fear and wanting.

His laugh holds no warmth as it fills my space. "Make me." He steps closer andhis eyes gleam with challenge, his heat penetrating the careful distance I try to maintain between us. "Show me what's under all that polish. The killer you keep caged. The violence you pretend doesn't live in your blood."

He stares at me, as if willing to challenge him while knowing I won’t. Each second that passes in silence feels like a battle lost.

"You know what I find interesting?" He pauses at my bookshelf, running a finger along the spines of my law texts. "The way you organize everything. Color-coded, alphabetical, perfect alignment." His smile cuts through the dim light. "Just like they taught us to maintain weapons."

The comparison hits too close. I force myself to stay still as he circles my living room, but my body betrays me and shifts stance to maintain optimal distance, cataloging improvised weapons within reach. The heavy crystal paperweight on my desk. The fire poker by the decorative fireplace. The letter opener that’s disguised as modern art.

"Some people just like order," I choke out, but the words ring hollow even to my ears.

He laughs, the sound raising goosebumps along my arms. "Order? Is that what you callthis prison you've built?" He gestures at my carefully curated space. "Look at yourself, Rafael. Standing there like you're ready for combat while pretending to be…what? Just another regular law student?"

My hands clench at my sides. The urge to strike thrums through my veins, a symphony of violence I've spent years trying to silence. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know everything about you." He moves closer, each step measured and deliberate. "I know your eyes dart around every inch of a space before entering any room. I know you position your furniture to create defensive positions. I know you wake up reaching for weapons that aren't there anymore."

The space between us shrinks with each word. My pulse hammers against my throat as he breaches my carefully maintained boundaries. The scent of his cologne mixes with the citrus oil I use to polish my furniture, creating something dangerously intoxicating.

"Tell me to leave," he says, voice dropping lower. "Tell me you don't feel it, the pull of what you really are. What we both are."

I back away, but my apartment suddenly feels too small. Every retreat brings me upagainst another piece of furniture, another wall, another reminder that I'm trapped in this space with him. And with what he represents.

"This isn't what I am." The bitter words taste like ash.

"No?" He follows my retreat, staying just close enough to make my skin prickle with awareness. "Then why do your eyes keep tracking my movements? Why does your breath catch when I step closer?" His smile sharpens. "You don’t fear me, Rafael. You recognize me. More than that, you recognize yourself in me, don’t you?"

Heat floods my veins as I’m filled with anger and want. I try to steady my breathing but can't quite manage it. Everything I've built here—the perfect apartment, the careful routine, the pristine image—crumbles.

"Get out," I repeat, the command emerging rough, more threat than words.

He knows it too.

My back hits the wall beside my windows. The cool glass radiates against my skin, forcing me to stay grounded and present, even as everything else spins out of control. Dario braces one hand beside my head, caging mewith his body. Trapping me. There’s nowhere to run.

"You're trembling," he murmurs, close enough that his breath ghosts across my lips. "Is it because you want to hurt me? Or because you want something else?"

The question hangs between us, electric with possibility. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. Every instinct screams to fight or flee, but I remain frozen, caught between what I am and what I've tried to become. I am neither; I am both.

His other hand comes up to trace my jaw, the touch deceptively gentle. "Your pulse is racing." His fingers trail down my throat. "I bet you're calculating exactly how many ways you could take me down right now. Bet you're imagining how it would feel."

I know he’s just taunting me, but he's right. God help me, he's right. Every point of contact between us burns with violent promise. My muscles coil tight, ready for action I refuse to take. The city lights stream through my windows, casting us both in shifting shadows that make this feel like a dream. Or a nightmare.

His hand slides from my jaw to my throat,resting there with deliberate pressure. Not choking, not yet, but the threat makes my pulse jump against his palm. The touch ignites something I've tried to bury, something that burns hotter than rage. I feel my cock rising in my pants against every will I have.

"Last chance," I warn, but the words come out breathless, hungry.

His eyes darken at my tone, and the space between us disappears entirely. The line between violence and desire blurs until I can't tell which one I'm fighting anymore.

"Show me," he breathes against my mouth. "Show me what you really want."

As if the words were laced with a dark spell, they ignite something within me.

My hands move before conscious thought takes over, gripping his shoulders with bruising force. The expensive leather of his jacket bunches under my fingers as I spin us, slamming him against the wall beside my windows. The impact rattles the glass, sending vibrations through the frame that match the tremors running through my body.

Dario's laugh comes out breathless, triumphant. "Good. You let him out to play," hegrowls, eyes wild with victory and want. "There's the real Rafael Valenti."

I pin him there against the cool glass of the window overlooking the city, my body pressed against his, violence and desire tangling until I can't tell them apart. His hands find my hips, his fingers digging in with possession rather than defense. The touch burns through my clothes, igniting nerve endings I've tried so hard to deaden.

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