Page 3 of Lord of Obsession

I start a lazy set of presses, barely feeling the weight. My mind is already racing ahead to Rafael's arrival, anticipating the tight line of his shoulders when he spots me. The way he'll try to pretend I don't exist while his body betrays every moment of awareness. Fucking beautiful, his control. Makes me want to shatter it piece by piece.

The gym's floor-to-ceiling windows paint the weight room in early morning light, all clean lines and professional polish. Everything here is designed to look legitimate, respectable. Just like Rafael in his perfectly pressed shirts and color-coded notes. But I saw the truth in his eyes last night in the library. The predator's instinct he tries so hard to bury. He might have fooled anyone else with that ice-cold law student act, but I know what hides under expensive cotton shirts and careful manners. I recognize my own kind.

6:43 AM. Right on schedule, Rafaelpushes through the glass doors. His gym clothes are as methodically chosen as his study spot: black shorts, gray shirt, everything fitted but not tight. Nothing flashy. Nothing to draw attention. My lips curl into a smile as I watch his reflection. All that effort to blend in just makes him stand out more, like a wolf trying to play at being a sheep.

He clocks me instantly—I see it in the microscopic pause in his stride—but keeps walking to the cardio section. Sets up at his usual treadmill with mechanical precision. Every movement measured, controlled. It's fucking mesmerizing. I add another plate to the bar, metal clanging loud enough to make him twitch. Just slightly. Just enough.

The morning crowd starts to fill in around us. College kids and early-bird professionals, all wrapped up in their own little worlds. None of them have a clue what they're sharing space with. Two predators playing at being normal, though only one of us is still pretending.

I take my time with each rep, letting Rafael feel the weight of my attention. His form on the treadmill is perfect, because of course it fucking is. But I can see the tensioncoiling through him with each stride. The way his eyes flick to my reflection when he thinks I'm not watching. He's burning to know why I'm here, what game I'm playing. Good. Let him wonder.

The real fun is watching his control slip, degree by degree. It's there in the sweat darkening his shirt faster than his careful workout should cause. The way his fingers clench too tightly on the treadmill's handles. Every crack in his composure feeds something hungry in my chest. Makes me want to push harder, dig deeper, find out what it takes to make him snap.

My phone buzzes, probably Dad, wanting an update on my "college attendance." Like that matters. The only subject I'm studying is the way Rafael's jaw clenches when I rack my weights too loud. The subtle tells that betray his training. Three years of playing student haven't erased the killer's instincts bred into Valenti bones. He's just buried them under law books and respectability.

Time to change that.

Behind him, the sun breaks through the morning clouds, painting his silhouette in sharp relief. It's almost poetic, this little scenehe's built for himself—the dedicated law student getting in his morning workout before class. All clean lines and productive energy. But I can read the violence in the way he runs, each stride too precise, too measured. No wasted movement. No weakness shown. He runs like someone used to being chased.

Dad would tell me I'm wasting my time here. That if we're going to move against the Valentis, it should be something direct. Bloody. Send a real message. But he doesn't see what I see. Doesn't understand how much sweeter it'll be to take apart all this careful control piece by piece. To make Rafael remember exactly what he is and what blood runs in his veins.

The same blood I'm going to spill, one way or another.

The gym manager hovers near the front desk, pretending not to watch me. Smart man. He's already figured out that trouble follows me, even if he doesn't know exactly what kind. I roll my shoulders, enjoying the way he flinches when I stand. Everyone in this place operates on instinct, even if they don't know it. Pure animal awareness of the apex predator in their midst.

Everyone except Rafael. He just keeps running, spine straight, eyes forward. But I know better. I know exactly how aware he is of every move I make.

It's a dance we're starting, him and me. And I plan to lead.

Thirty minutes. That's how long I let him pretend I don't exist. Let him finish his careful cardio routine and move to the weight section, his every movement rigid with restraint. Now he's at the leg press, and I can't help but admire the raw strength he tries to disguise. Another crack in his perfect facade. Another tell he can't quite hide.

I take my time approaching, circling around the machines like I'm deciding what to hit next. The weight room's cleared out a bit; something about the energy rolling off me tends to send the morning crowd scurrying to their corporate jobs. Fine by me. Fewer witnesses to what comes next.

"That's some heavy weight for a law student," I say, positioning myself where he can't ignore me. His form doesn't break and he finishes his rep with the same controlled precision, but I catch the slight flutter ofhis pulse at his throat. "Then again, you're not just any law student, are you?"

He doesn't answer, just starts his next set. The weights clash with carefully regulated force, his breathing measured and even. But I see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers grip the handles too tight. Every inch of him screaming awareness while he plays deaf and dumb.

"You know, I've been watching you," I continue, leaning against the adjacent machine. "All these perfect little routines. Same schedule, same machines, same controlled bullshit. Must be exhausting trying so hard to be normal." I let my voice drop lower, intimate. "Tell me, Rafael, do you actually enjoy any of it? Or is it just another piece of your costume?"

His rhythm falters for a fraction of a second. Barely noticeable, but to me, it's like blood in the water. I step closer, into his peripheral vision. "I bet you miss it sometimes. Therealtraining. The kind that actually matters in our world. All this..." I gesture at the gym's polished equipment, the pristine mirrors, the motivational posters. "It's just playing pretend, isn't it?"

He racks the weights with precise controland sits up, finally looking at me. His eyes are cold, but there's fire banked behind them. Good.

"Do you need something?" His voice is perfectly neutral. Perfectly fake. "The trainers can help you with proper form if you're having trouble."

I laugh, letting him hear the edge in it. "There it is. That Valenti bite hiding under all that prep school polish." I move closer, watching his muscles tense for action he won't let himself take. "Bet it kills you, having to swallow that pride. Having to let some Greco trash talk down to you in your fancy gym."

"I have class in twenty minutes," he says, standing with measured grace. Every movement is calculated to avoid contact, to maintain that precious control. But I'm already blocking his easiest path of retreat, forcing him to either engage or show weakness by taking the long way around.

"Funny thing about routines," I say, not moving an inch. "They make you predictable. Easy to find. Easy to"—I reach out, adjusting one of the weight plates on his machine with deliberate slowness—"access."

The threat lands. I see it in the micro-expressions he can't quite suppress, the combat calculations running behind those cold eyes. He's running scenarios, just like he was trained. Exactly like he was trained. Another crack in his paper-thin mask of normalcy.

"Thanks for the concern," he says, voice still steady. But I catch the slight Italian lilt bleeding through his careful pronunciation. Stress showing in the smallest ways. "But I like my routines."

"No," I say, smiling slowly and sharply. "You hate them. You hate every second of pretending to be something you're not. I can see it eating at you." I step fully into his space now, close enough to catch his scent—clean sweat and expensive soap and something uniquely him that makes my mouth water. "Want to know what else I see, Rafael?"

He holds his ground, but I feel the once-latent violence in him, so close to the surface now. One wrong move—or maybe one exactly right move—from snapping. The other gym-goers give us a wide berth, instinctively sensing the predators in their midst. Even the staff keeps their distance, though I catch them whispering into phones. Probably calling security. Like that would makea difference.

---