Page 113 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

My hands shake slightly as I reach for fresh gauze, needing something to do, some way to ground myself in this surreal moment.

"Now the constant need to hurt you, to control you, to make you suffer – it's not there anymore. Or maybe it is, but it'sdifferent. Quieter. And I don't—" His voice catches. "I don't know who I am without it. Without that driving force that's shaped every decision, every action, every moment of my life."

The confession hangs between us like smoke, heavy with implications neither of us is fully prepared to face.

"It makes me feel wrong," he continues, each word seeming to cost him more. "Like I'm unnecessary. Unwanted. Like maybe everyone would be better off if I just... wasn't here anymore. Because what's the point of existing if I'm not fulfilling the only purpose I've ever known?"

Tears gather in his good eye, making it gleam in the kitchen's warm light. "I look at you now – at how strong you've become, at the family you've built, at everything you've achieved despite everything I did to break you – and I realize I'm just... extra. A reminder of trauma you don't need. A piece that doesn't fit anymore."

The gauze crumples in my grip as his words hit home. Because this is Domino – my tormentor, my nightmare, my stepbrother who turned childhood into a battlefield – admitting not just weakness, but something far more devastating.

He's admitting to being lost.

"The therapy sessions," he whispers, his voice rough with emotion I've never heard from him before, "they're making me see things I can't unsee. Feel things I don't know how to handle. And sometimes I think—" He breaks off, drawing a shaky breath. "Sometimes I think it would be easier for everyone if I just stopped existing. If I removed myself from the equation entirely."

The clinical part of my mind recognizes this for what it is – a cry for help wrapped in confession. But the rest of me, the part that remembers years of careful survival, doesn't know how to process this version of him.

Because how do you respond when your greatest tormentor admits to being haunted by their own actions? When the monster from your nightmares reveals they're drowning in the consequences of their choices?

The kitchen light catches his tears as they finally spill over, tracking through blood and bruises like some twisted form of penance. And I realize, with a clarity that terrifies me, that I don't know how to hate this version of him.

I don't know how to hate someone who's finally facing the weight of their own darkness.

The weight of his confession settles over me like a physical thing, making each breath feel heavy with possibility and doubt.

How do you forgive someone who's shaped your entire existence around pain? How do you let go of years of calculated hatred when it's become as natural as breathing?

"We got pretty good at hating each other, didn't we?" The words emerge soft, almost contemplative as I study his battered face. "It feels strange now – not having that constant battle between us."

My free hand moves of its own accord, fingers gentle as they brush away tears he probably doesn't even realize he's shedding. Our eyes lock, and for a moment I see past the bruises, past the blood, to something raw and uncertain beneath.

"Stop the therapy."

He blinks, his good eye widening slightly as he processes my words. For several heartbeats, he just stares, as if trying to determine whether he heard correctly.

"Matteo and the others aren't going to approve—" he starts, but I cut him off with a sharp gesture.

"Your Queen says stop," I declare, letting authority color my tone. "You'll listen to me."

A frown creases his forehead, pulling at various cuts and bruises. "I could be playing you," he mutters, though somethingin his voice suggests he's trying to convince himself more than me. "Could be manipulating you to get off the hook."

As if to prove his point, his hand comes up to wrap around my throat. The gesture should terrify me – has terrified me countless times before. But there's no pressure in his grip, no real threat. He's just... holding on. Like he needs the physical connection to anchor himself to this moment where everything between us has shifted.

"Who hurt you?" I whisper, watching how his fingers tremble slightly against my skin.

"The hockey team." He attempts a casual shrug that doesn't quite hide his pain. "Who wants the new favorite of the world on their team after I lost on the opposite side but still get a pass 'cause my Dad is the owner of the university?" His smirk holds no humor, tears continuing to track down his cheeks though he seems oblivious to them.

How much pain are you carrying?I wonder, watching him try to maintain his facade even as it crumbles.How many wounds are you hiding beneath all that carefully crafted cruelty?

He turns away suddenly, as if he can't bear to meet my gaze any longer. "This scares the fuck out of me," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "This... calm. Because I can hear it now."

"Hear what?"

"The clock." His words carry a weight that makes my chest tight. "Ticking away until my time's up. Until it's time to collect and pay for my dues."

"The Blinded One," I say softly, and his head snaps back to face me. Something passes between us in that look – understanding maybe, or shared fear.

"What did you request from him?"

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