Page 112 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

Domino doesn't move, his good eye fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. "Since when do you play nurse? Thought that role was reserved for your precious Kings."

"You are one of my Kings," I remind him sharply, the words surprising us both. "Now sit down before you fall down."

Something flickers across his battered features – surprise maybe, or disbelief. But he complies, sinking onto the stool with a barely suppressed groan. Up close, the damage looks even worse. Whatever happened, it wasn't just a simple fight.

"Who did this?" I ask, accepting the first aid supplies Hannah quietly sets beside us. My fingers are steady as I begin cleaning blood from his face, though anger burns hot in my chest.

"Thought you'd be happy," he mutters, flinching slightly as I dab at particularly nasty cut above his eye. "Isn't this what you wanted? To see me suffer?"

"Not like this." The words emerge softer than intended, heavy with implications neither of us is ready to face. "This isn't... this wasn't me."

His laugh holds no humor. "No? Isn't this karma finally catching up to me? Isn't this exactly what I deserve?"

"Just shut up," I snap, though the words lack their usual venom. My hands remain steady as I sort through the first aid supplies, trying to ignore how right he is. How perfectly his words align with everything I've told myself I wanted.

A phone rings somewhere in the distance, its cheerful tone jarringly out of place in this moment of tension.

"I'll take that in the other room," Hannah announces smoothly. "The pasta sauce is on low heat, Miss Prescott."

"Thanks, Hannah." My voice sounds strange to my own ears – too soft, too uncertain. I focus on gathering gauze and antiseptic, trying to make sense of the contradiction between what I should feel and what's actually coursing through me.

Domino remains unnaturally still as I work, his usual restless energy contained in a way that feels wrong. Blood continues to trickle from the cut above his eyebrow, marking paths through already-forming bruises like macabre art.

"Why?" I ask again, softer this time. "What happened?"

The silence stretches between us, heavy with years of complicated history. Just when I think he won't answer, his voice emerges barely above a whisper: "Would it make things easier if I just... disappeared?"

My hands freeze, the alcohol-soaked gauze hovering inches from his face. Our eyes meet – one of his nearly swollen shut, the other carrying an intensity that makes my chest ache. Something passes between us in that look, something that transcends our careful masks and practiced hatred.

"Have you been taking your medicine?" The question comes out sharper than intended, worry making my tone harsh.

"Yes." The word falls like a stone between us.

"And therapy?" I press, watching his face for tells I've learned to read over years of calculated warfare. "Have you been going?"

His laugh holds no humor. "By force, obviously." Then, quieter: "Not like I have a choice in the matter."

"Then why the fuck would you ask me that?" My voice cracks slightly, betraying emotions I'm not ready to examine. "Why would you?—"

"Because I needed you to tell me off," he cuts in, his words carrying a rawness I've never heard from him. "Needed you to react, to give me a reason to actually show up to those sessions. To keep trying when everything in me wants to just... stop."

Something cold settles in my stomach as his meaning sinks in. "It must make your day," I mutter, focusing on cleaning his wounds to avoid his gaze, "knowing you can still get under my skin. Still make me worry."

"That's just it," he says, so quietly I almost miss it. "I don't understand why you give a damn at all."

A heavy sigh escapes me as I set down the gauze. "Why are you saying this, Domino?"

When he meets my eyes again, the intensity there steals my breath. All our careful pretenses, all our practiced hatred – it falls away, leaving something raw and desperate in its place.

"My entire life," he starts, each word seeming to cost him, "has been focused on hating you. On breaking you. On making sure every breath you took was tainted by my presence." His voice cracks slightly. "It was my purpose, my obsession, the thing that defined me."

I stay perfectly still, afraid any movement might shatter this moment of brutal honesty.

"And now?" He lets out a shaky breath. "Now I sit in these therapy sessions, listening to someone pick apart every twisted thing I've done. Every calculated cruelty, every moment of violence, every time I chose to hurt you just because I could."

His good eye closes briefly, pain flickering across his features that has nothing to do with physical wounds. "They make me talk about it – about why I did it, about what I was feeling, about all the fucked-up reasons I convinced myself it was okay."

When he opens his eye again, there's something haunted in his gaze. "And I'm starting to see it. Really see it. All of it. The way I wouldn't let you have a single moment of peace, the way I turned every kindness into a weapon, the way I—" He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. "The way I broke everything good just because I couldn't stand seeing it exist."

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