Page 59 of Lord of Obsession

But movement sends agony blazing through my nerve endings, reminding me of limitations I'm not used to accepting. Rafael notices—of course he does, he notices everything—and his hand finds my face with careful gentleness.

"You need rest." His thumb traces my jaw, the touch carrying none of our usual violence.

"So do you." The admission that I notice costs something, but I'm too tired to care. These past days have stripped us both raw—him abandoning pretense of normalcy while I bleed all over his waxed floors.

His careful mask cracks further as he helps me sit up, supporting my weight while I swallow water and pills. The position brings him close enough that I catch his scent: expensive cologne barely masking exhaustion and gunpowder. He's been practicing at the range again, preparing for the inevitable moment when the Ferraras find us.

"They'll try again." His voice carries quiet certainty as he checks my bandages. "Not just the Ferraras. Both our families, all of Montcove. They'll all try to tear us apart."

I slide my hand to his nape, fingers tangling in hair that's escaped its usual perfect styling. "Let them try. I didn't take these bullets just to let someone else call the shots. Not with us."

His breath catches as I pull him closer, until our foreheads touch and the rest of the world fades to background noise. Outside, Montcove's morning traffic creates dancing patterns of light and shadow across his carefully neutral walls. Inside, we remain suspended in this strange peace, both acutely aware it can't last.

The security system chimes again—another of Marco's team completing their security rounds. Rafael starts to pull away, ever the tactician, but I hold him still. Let our families rage. Let this whole fucking city tear itself apart trying to separate us.

He’s worth it.

My free hand finds his throat, and I press my thumb, gently this time, against his pulse. The steady rhythm grounds me as pain and morphine try to drag me under again. But I fight it, needing to feel this—this moment of quiet triumph as Rafael finally stops pretending he wants to be anywhere else.

"Sleep." His command carries that slight accent he gets when control slips. "You need to heal."

I smile against his skin, tasting victory and belonging and chains we've forged in blood. "Stay."

He does.

The afternoon drags endless as I drift in and out of consciousness. Medication dulls everything until it’s all a smear of formless color, but some instincts run too deep to silence completely. A car door slams three stories down. Footsteps echo in the stairwelldespite the building's soundproofing. My body tries to respond before my mind fully registers the threat.

"Don't." Rafael's hand settles on my chest, keeping me still. "Marco's team is handling it."

I hate this. This helplessness, this forced reliance on others while my body betrays me with weakness. The security feed shows dark sedans circling the block, Valenti soldiers doing what they do best: hunting prey. Rafael watches them through narrowed eyes, all that civility stripped away by necessity.

"Your uncle's getting bold." My voice sounds distant, unreal. "He’s sending teams this deep into neutral territory."

"He's desperate." Rafael's fingers drum against the tablet displaying camera feeds. "The Ferrara attack exposed too many weaknesses in his operation. Now he needs to reassert control."

By finding us. By dragging his wayward nephew back to the fold. By eliminating the Greco complication that's disrupted his careful plans. The thought sends ice through my veins despite the fever still burning beneath my skin.

A glimpse of motion draws my attentionto the hallway. Rafael tenses, one hand already reaching for the weapon concealed beneath his suit jacket. Three years of pretending haven't dulled his reflexes. If anything, they're sharper now, honed by the need to protect what's his.

The door's electronic lock disengages with a soft click. Marco steps inside, his usual stone-faced expression cracked by urgency. "Sir, we've got movement on the south perimeter. They've found?—"

Gunfire erupts from the street below, the sound muffled by thick glass. Rafael moves with feline grace, checking sight lines while keeping his body between me and the windows. The position should feel suffocating and vulnerable. Instead, it settles something restless in my body.

"How many?" I try to push upright, but fresh pain blazes through my wounds.

"Stay down," Rafael hisses through his teeth. "You don’t need to tear any more stitches."

More shots ring out, closer now. Marco barks orders into his comm unit, coordinating our security teams' response. But my focus narrows to Rafael—to the way tension coilsthrough his frame to how naturally he falls into a combat stance. All that careful conditioning forgotten in the face of immediate threat.

"We need to move." Marco's voice carries quiet urgency. "The backup site is prepped, but we have maybe three minutes before?—"

"No." The word emerges as a growl as I force myself to sit up. "I'm not running anymore. Not from them. Not from anyone."

Rafael's hands find my shoulders and grip tight enough to bruise. "This isn't about pride or territory. You can barely stand."

"Then help me." I catch his wrist, feeling how his pulse races beneath expensive cotton. "You've spent years building walls between you and what you are. Time to use that knowledge. Show me how to disappear."

Something flashes across his face—understanding or recognition or both. His fingers slide to my throat, reading chaos in my heartbeat. "You trust me that much?"

---