Page 57 of Lord of Obsession

His fingers slide from my throat to my jaw, the touch gentler than I've ever felt from him. "Noble of you. Fucking stupid, but noble."

"You don't understand." But even as I say it, I know he does. Better than anyone. "The patterns, the weaknesses in how these organizations operate, if someone could expose them properly..."

"What? The cops would suddenly growspines? The judges would stop taking bribes?" His laugh sounds hollow. "The system's rotten from the ground to the sky, Rafael. That's why families like ours exist in the first place."

The use of “ours” hits me like a physical blow. I close my eyes, fighting the weight of truth in his words. "There has to be a way. Some path that doesn't end in blood and bullet casings."

"Maybe." His thumb traces my lower lip, the touch electric despite his weakness. "But that's not why you really ran, is it? Not the whole truth."

My eyes snap open to find his gaze locked on me, fever-bright and knowing. "Don't."

"Say it." His voice drops lower, intimate as a knife pressed to the spine. "Tell me what really sent you running to those ivory towers. What you're actually afraid of."

The words rise like bile in my throat, truth I've never admitted even to myself. "I was good at it. The violence. The power. The pure fucking clarity of hurting people who deserved it." My hands clench in my lap. "I didn't just understand it. I loved it."

His smile carries no judgment, only recognition. "Like tonight. At the clinic. Tell meyou didn't feel alive taking them apart. Tell me it didn't sing in your blood."

"Stop." But it's a token protest at best. We both know he's right.

"No more stopping." His grip tightens on my jaw. "No more running. No more pretending you're something you're not." His eyes hold mine, stripping away layers of my facade. "You're exactly what they made you. What we both are. The difference is, I never tried to deny it."

"And look where that got you." I gesture at his bandaged chest, the monitors tracking his heartbeat. "Shot up in a private hospital because you couldn't walk away from a fight."

"Because I couldn't walk away from you." The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath. "Everything I've done—every game, every manipulation, every push to make you crack—it was all to make you see what I saw that first night in the library."

"What?" The question escapes, barely above a whisper.

"Someone like me. Someone who understands that violence isn't just about power or family loyalty." His thumb traces my cheekbone. "It's about truth. It’s about strippingaway all the pretty lies society tells itself and embracing what we really are."

The monitors track the acceleration of his pulse as silence stretches between us. Outside, the sun climbs higher, illuminating his room. I should argue and defend my constructed worldview of law and order and legitimate paths to change.

Instead, I hear myself say, "I can't walk away from you either."

The admission costs something vital, some last vestiges of being better than my nature. But as soon as the words leave my mouth, a weight lifts from my chest. The constant strain of maintaining masks and boundaries dissolves like mist in morning light.

"I know." His smile carries equal parts triumph and tenderness. "You never could. Not really. That's what terrified you so badly you ran to law school."

"Terrified me?" A bitter laugh escapes. "Look what happened when I stopped running. Look what following you back into this life has cost."

His hand slides into my hair, grip tightening just shy of pain. "Worth it. Every bullet, every drop of blood, every burned bridge.Worth it to see you finally embrace what you are."

"And what am I?" The question comes out low and steady, scraped from somewhere deeper than pride.

"Mine." His voice carries absolute conviction. "Just like I'm yours. Everything else is just details."

The truth of it burns through my chest, consuming the last of my resistance. I lean into his touch, letting myself feel the full weight of inevitability. Of recognition. Of belonging.

Dario's hand has migrated from my throat to the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in hair that's escaped its usual careful styling. The touch should feel possessive and threatening. Instead, it anchors me in this moment of strange peace.

"You need rest." I try to inject authority into the words, but they come out softer than intended. "The internal damage?—"

"Can wait." His thumb traces my jawline, the gesture almost reverent. "I've spent months watching you hide behind that perfect mask. Let me see you. Really see you."

I let him guide me down until we'resharing the same breath, my body curved carefully around his injuries. This close, I can see the faint scars mapping his skin, stories written in violence and survival. My fingers drift to the newest wounds, gauze stark against his flesh.

"Stop thinking so hard." His voice carries equal parts amusement and command. "I can hear the gears turning from here."

"Someone has to think." But I don't pull away as his hand slides beneath my borrowed shirt, mapping my ribs and muscle with deliberate care. "About security protocols and medical logistics and?—"

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