Page 19 of Lord of Obsession

The library's afternoon quiet shatters as my study room door opens. I don't need to look up to know who it is. The calculated heaviness of the footsteps, the deliberate way the handle turns, the sudden thickness in the air—all telltale signs. My pen digs into paper, leaving harsh indents that match my racing pulse.

The door closes with a soft click thatechoes through the room like a bullet chambering. His presence fills the space like smoke, suffocating every attempt at normalcy. I keep writing, each letter a desperate grab at control that's already slipping away.

"Private study rooms are for students only." I keep writing, refusing to acknowledge how my pulse quickens. The words blur into meaningless shapes as his footsteps trace a deliberate path around my carefully arranged workspace.

"Funny." Dario's voice carries notes of dark amusement. "Your student ID got me through the door just fine." Something plastic glints in my peripheral vision—a copy of my key card. Another boundary breached, another defense stripped away.

The glass walls transform from protection to prison. Outside, students pass by unseeing, wrapped in their bubble of lectures and deadlines. None of them notice how Dario's presence warps the air, charges it with possibilities I've spent years denying.

He circles my table like a shark scenting blood. Each rotation brings him closer, testing limits, measuring my reaction. I focus on my notes, but the letters swim before my eyes.The now familiar scent of his cologne mingles with old books and fresh ink, making my head spin.

"You're avoiding me." He stops behind my chair, close enough that his breath stirs my hair. "You missed our scheduled gym session this morning. Changed your coffee shop routine." His hand brushes my shoulder, feather-light but burning. "Almost like you're running."

"I have a midterm tomorrow." The words come out steady despite the tremor running beneath my skin. "Some of us take our studies seriously."

His laugh ripples through the small space. "Still playing that card?" His fingers trail down my arm, raising goosebumps in their wake. "After what happened in the warehouse? After what you showed me?"

Heat floods my face at the memory of violence and desire tangled into something I can't name. My hands flatten against the desk, seeking stability as images flash through my mind: scotch spilling across wood, blood on my knuckles, his mouth hot against mine.

"That was a mistake." But even I don't believe the lie.

"No." He leans down, lips brushing my ear. "That was the truth. Everything else is a mistake. This costume"—his fingers pluck at my silk tie—"these props"—he gestures at my textbooks—"this whole performance of normalcy."

The air conditioner continues to hum, pushing stale air through vents that suddenly feel too small. My carefully constructed world shrinks to this moment, this space, this inevitable collision of who I pretend to be and what I actually am.

"You have ten seconds to leave." I still haven't looked at him directly. I can't risk seeing my own hunger reflected in his eyes.

"Or what?" The challenge slides like velvet over steel. "You'll show everyone out there exactly what you're capable of? Let them see the real Rafael Valenti?"

My fingers curl into fists without conscious thought. The movement doesn't escape his notice—nothing does. He shifts closer, anticipation rolling off him in waves. Two years of perfect attendance, of careful study habits, of maintained distance from anything that might expose my nature. All of it is crumbling to dust under the weight of his presence.

"They're starting to notice, you know." His voice drops lower, meant for my ears alone. "The way you check exits. How you position yourself for maximum tactical advantage. Little tells that scream soldier, not student." His hand settles on the back of my neck, thumb finding my pulse. "The mask is slipping, killer. Time to admit what's hiding underneath."

The glass walls reflect our tableau: him standing over me, my rigid posture screaming awareness of every point of contact between us. Beyond the transparent barrier, academic life continues its meaningless flow. But in here, time crystallizes around us like amber, preserving this moment of recognition and revelation.

I know I should call for help. I should maintain my cover as just another law student. I should do anything except sit here, electricity crackling beneath my skin where he touches me. But we both know I won't. Can't. The game undeniably changed in that warehouse, and now there's no going back to simple pretense.

Outside, the late afternoon sun slants through the library's gothic windows, castinglong shadows that stretch across the floor. My watch shows 4:47 PM—exactly the time I'd usually pack up and head to my evening study spot. Another routine he's tainted, another safe space transformed into a battlefield.

"Tick tock, Rafael." His fingers drum against my shoulder, each touch a detonator threatening to spark the explosives running through my veins. "How long can you keep pretending? How many more walls can you build before they all come crashing down?"

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with a truth I can't afford to acknowledge. My careful world shrinks to this moment, this space, this inevitable collision between the man I've tried to become and the killer bred into my bones.

I finally turn to face him, abandoning all pretense of study. Dario lounges against the glass wall, his designer jacket unbuttoned, showing the weapon at his hip. The casual display of threat transforms the academic space into something darker, more dangerous.

More honest.

He is so sexy. I can keep trying to deny that all I want, but it is true. The rough stubble of his chin brings back memoriesunbidden and his piercing blue eyes will me to break again.

"What do you want?" My voice turns rough, the carefully cultivated American accent slipping into what feels more natural. Three years of speech coaching undone by his mere presence.

"The truth." He pushes off the wall with fluid grace. "About why you're really here. Why you spend hours memorizing laws instead of enforcing them the old way." His eyes rake over my suit, my books, and my attempts at camouflage. "Why you're running from what flows in your veins."

Heat rises under my collar. "I'm not running from anything."

"No?" Two steps bring him closer. "Then why does your breath catch when I move? Why do your eyes track me like a target?" His smile cuts sharp as a blade. "Why did you kiss me back in that warehouse?"

The memory hits like a physical blow—our scotch spilling across the wooden floor, cotton fabric tearing under desperate hands, the metallic taste of blood on his lips. I shove back from the table, needing distance but finding none in the confinedspace.

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