Page 111 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

"The cookies need another three minutes," Hannah observes, pulling me from my thoughts. Her timing, as always, is impeccable.

I adjust the heat under the pasta sauce before turning to face her fully. "Hannah," I start carefully, measuring my words. "What do you know about The Blind One?"

The slight pause in her movements is telling. "That's quite a loaded question, Miss Prescott."

"I need to understand what we're dealing with," I press, watching her expression carefully. "Especially given recent... developments."

Hannah's sigh is barely audible as she checks the cookies with mechanical precision. "Information about him is remarkably scarce, despite extensive research. However," she sets the timer for two more minutes, "I did discover why he carries that particular moniker."

"You mean besides the obvious?" I lean against the counter, curiosity piqued.

"His eyes were burned out," Hannah states matter-of-factly, though something in her tone suggests the story carries more weight than simple injury. "During an incident that remains largely shrouded in mystery."

The casual way she delivers such violent information makes me shiver. "Burned out? Like... deliberately?"

"Most likely," she confirms, moving to stir the pasta sauce. "Though whether it was punishment, ritual, or something else entirely remains unclear."

I process this, remembering the unsettling presence he commanded even through phone calls. "What about family? Connections?"

"He has a child," Hannah reveals, though her tone suggests this information comes with caveats. "But establishing any direct relationship has proven... challenging. As for spouse or extended family – that information remains frustratingly elusive."

"How does someone with that much influence maintain such perfect anonymity?" I wonder aloud, more to myself than Hannah.

But she answers anyway: "The same way he maintains his power – through careful application of very specific services."

"Services?" I prompt, though something cold settles in my stomach at her tone.

Hannah turns off the burner under the sauce, her movements deliberate as she chooses her next words. "The Blind One has essentially cornered the market on what you might call 'creative punishment protocols.'"

"You mean like what happened to Scarlett?" The words taste bitter on my tongue.

"Precisely." Hannah's expression carries carefully controlled disgust. "It seems the traditional methods of elimination – bullets, family annihilation, etc. – have grown... pedestrian for some tastes. Modern power players prefer more lasting forms of suffering."

"Like giving people incurable diseases?" I can't keep the horror from my voice. "That's somehow considered more refined than just killing them?"

"Death is quick," Hannah observes clinically. "Watching someone you love waste away while knowing you're responsible for their suffering? That's the kind of psychological torture our world has developed quite an appetite for."

The timer beeps, making me jump slightly. Hannah removes the cookies with perfect timing, setting them to cool as she continues. "The Blind One provides these services with unparalleled efficiency. But," her tone grows sharper, more warning, "everything he offers comes with a price."

"What kind of price?"

"The kind that's never fully explained until it's time to collect." Hannah's eyes meet mine, carrying real concern. "Andwhen he comes to collect, Miss Prescott, you either pay your dues or someone pays them for you."

The sound of the front door opening cuts through the heavy atmosphere, followed by the dull thud of something heavy hitting marble floors. Footsteps approach the kitchen, uneven and lacking their usual swagger.

Domino appears in the doorway, and my heart actually stutters at the sight of him. His face is a mess of bruises, one eye nearly swollen shut, blood caking what looks like a split lip. The perfect hockey star image he usually maintains is completely shattered, replaced by someone who looks like they've gone ten rounds with professional fighters.

"Jesus," the word escapes before I can stop it. My feet move without conscious thought, closing the distance between us. "What happened to you?"

He lets out a harsh laugh that turns into a wince. "What's this?" His voice comes out rough, like he's been screaming. "You actually give a shit now? Or am I still the piece of trash who deserves whatever beating comes my way?"

The bitterness in his tone makes me pause, my hand frozen halfway to his face. Part of me – the part that remembers years of torment, of calculated cruelty – wants to pull back. Wants to maintain the careful distance I've built between us.

But something in his eyes, visible even through the swelling and blood, makes that impossible. Because beneath the anger and pain, I catch a glimpse of something else. Something that looks terrifyingly like resignation.

"Shut up and sit down," I order, gesturing to one of the kitchen stools. "Hannah?—"

"First aid kit is already on its way," she confirms smoothly, moving to retrieve ice from the freezer.

---