Page 25 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

I block her next punch but fail to see the knife she's somehow produced – *Knifey*, she calls it, like it's a beloved pet. The blade slices through my sleeve, drawing a line of fire across my bicep. She's not aiming to kill, not yet. She wants me to suffer first.

"You took him from me," she snarls, and her voice doesn't even sound human anymore. It's like multiple voices speaking at once, a chorus of rage and pain. "You took everything from me!"

The warehouse echoes with our violent dance – the sound of flesh hitting flesh, grunts of pain, the scrape of shoes against concrete. I may have more raw strength, but she moves like water, flowing around my defenses and striking where I'm weakest.

"You started this!" I shout back, finally landing a solid hit that sends her stumbling backward. "You're the one who had to come back and ruin everything! I was finally free of you!"

But even as I say it, I know it's a lie. I was never free of her. She haunted my dreams, my thoughts, my every waking moment. Even when she was gone, she was there – in Father's disappointed looks, in the empty seat at family dinners, in the whispers of the staff who always loved her more.

She laughs then, a chilling sound that raises goosebumps on my arms. "Free?" She wipes blood from her split lip, eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. "You've been obsessing over me since we were children. Watching. Waiting. Planning how to break me next."

Her words hit harder than her fists, because they're true. I remember the joy I felt watching her cry, the power that coursed through me when I made her suffer. But there was something else too – a desperate need for her attention, even if it was born of fear.

We circle each other now, both breathing heavily. Blood drips from various cuts and scrapes, pattering against the concrete like rain. In the dim light, she looks almost ethereal – a vengeful angel come to deliver judgment.

"I should have killed you years ago," I growl, but my voice lacks conviction. We both know I never could. Even now, with everything falling apart, something stops me from delivering that final blow.

"But you didn't," she taunts. "Because you're weak. A coward who can only prey on those smaller and weaker than himself. Well, guess what, big brother?" Her smile is all teeth and madness. "I'm not weak anymore."

She moves like lightning, feinting left before driving her knee into my solar plexus. The air leaves my lungs in a rush as I double over, and she uses my momentum against me, grabbing my arm and throwing me over her hip. I hit the ground hard, my head cracking against the concrete.

Stars explode behind my eyes as she straddles my chest, Knifey pressed against my throat. I can feel the cold bite of the blade, the warmth of blood where it's already broken skin.

"Do it," I wheeze, staring up into those haunted eyes. "Finish what you started."

For a moment, I see hesitation flicker across her face – a glimpse of the girl she used to be. But then something else takes over, something darker and more primal. Her grip on the knife tightens.

"You don't deserve a quick death," she whispers, and the multiple voices are back, overlapping like a demonic choir. "You deserve to suffer like I suffered. Like Zander suffered."

The name sends a fresh wave of guilt through me. Benedict. My friend. My brother. The man I murdered in cold blood.

"He loved you," I say, and I'm not sure why I'm telling her this. Maybe because I need her to understand that his deathwasn't just about her. "He actually fucking loved you. Not like me – not this twisted, sick obsession we have. He loved you purely, completely."

Something breaks in her expression then – a crack in the mask of fury. Tears spill down her cheeks, mixing with blood and sweat. "And you took him from me," she chokes out. "You always take everything I love."

I see it all then – every moment of cruelty, every calculated act of torture, every time I chose to hurt her instead of protect her. All because I couldn't handle the way she made me feel – weak, inadequate, out of control.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, and for once in my life, I mean it. "I'm so fucking sorry, Iva."

The knife presses harder, drawing more blood. "Sorry doesn't bring him back," she hisses. "Sorry doesn't erase years of trauma. Sorry doesn't fix anything!"

She raises the knife, and I close my eyes, ready for the end. But instead of the fatal blow I expect, I hear her scream – raw and primal, filled with all the pain and rage she's carried for years. The knife clatters to the ground beside my head.

When I open my eyes, she's still straddling me, but her hands are pressed against her temples, her body shaking with sobs. "I hate you," she gasps. "I hate you so much it's killing me."

"I know," I say quietly, not daring to move. "I hate me too."

We stay like that for what feels like hours but must only be minutes – frozen in our shared misery, bound by blood and trauma and this sick obsession neither of us can escape. This is what we've become – two broken people who can't live with or without each other.

Finally, she rolls off me, collecting her knife as she stands. I sit up slowly, every movement sending jolts of pain through my battered body. We regard each other warily, like wounded animals unsure whether to fight or flee.

"What happens now?" I ask, tasting blood and regret.

Her laugh is hollow, empty of the madness from before but no less chilling. "Now?" She wipes Knifey clean on her sleeve, her movements deliberate and controlled. "Now we wait for the others to find us. And they will find us, Domino. Then you'll learn what true suffering means."

"They'll kill me," I state the obvious, struggling to my feet.

She smiles, and it's the smile of the sister I used to know – sweet and innocent on the surface, but hiding something darker underneath. "Death would be too kind," she says softly. "No, dear brother. We're going to keep you alive. Because the real game is just beginning."

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