Page 115 of Ruthless Kings of Obsession

I arch an eyebrow, watching his expression carefully. "Oh?"

"The condition your Kings gave me…well Matteo and Marcus specifically," he elaborates, forcing the words out like they physically pain him. "Therapy and medication. And even though the capsules taste like shit..." He swallows hard, looking away briefly. "They help me think better. Straighter. The voices aren't as impulsive or persuasive."

Something in my chest tightens at his admission. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His fingers flex against my skin, still so gentle despite our proximity. "I feel like I have a mind of my own. Like not getting what I want immediately doesn't become an obsession that ruins my entire fucking day." A bitter laugh escapes him. "Only thing I hate is not being able to leave my room at night. That shit's getting hard."

A smirk curves my lips before I can stop it.

"What? Need to stalk outside my room while I'm fucking another King?"

"Maybe." He shrugs, deliberately avoiding my gaze. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: "You have no fucking idea how hard it is to watch this evolution of you and not get a single taste."

The words hit me like a physical blow, making heat pool low in my belly despite everything. Because he's right – our previous encounters were always about power, about control, about breaking each other in new and creative ways. Never about mutual desire or genuine need.

A sigh escapes me as I process his words. "Well," I say carefully, "maybe if you're on good behavior and try not to kill me by the new year, we can find a compromise."

His eye widens slightly. "Compromise?"

"Mm." I let my fingers trail down his jaw, feeling how his pulse jumps beneath my touch. "Start over on a better, less damaged foot."

"Just like that?" Disbelief colors his tone, though something like hope flickers in his expression. "After everything?"

"Not just like that," I correct firmly. "But maybe... gradually. If you can prove you're actually trying to change. To be better."

His hand comes up to catch mine where it rests against his face. "I don't know how to be better," he admits roughly. "Don't know how to want you without wanting to destroy you too."

The honesty in his voice makes something in my chest ache. Because this is Domino – my tormentor, my nightmare, my stepbrother who turned childhood into a battlefield – admitting not just weakness, but desire.

"Maybe that's the point," I whisper, watching how his pupils dilate at our proximity. "Learning how to want without breaking. How to touch without shattering."

His breath catches audibly. "Is that what this is? A lesson in control?"

"More like..." I search for the right words, "an experiment in trust. In seeing if we can build something new from all these broken pieces."

His fingers tighten slightly around mine, not painful but definitely desperate. "And if we can't? If all we know how to do is hurt each other?"

"Then at least we tried," I say softly. "At least we didn't let fear of the past stop us from possibly having a different future."

Something dark and hungry flashes in his expression. "A future where I get to taste you properly?" The words come out rough, almost predatory. "Where I don't have to watch from the shadows while your Kings claim what I can only dream about?"

Heat floods my cheeks at his bluntness, but I don't look away. "Maybe," I concede carefully. "If you earn it. If you prove you can be trusted with that kind of power."

"Trust," he echoes, like the word itself is foreign. "After everything I've done to break your trust, to break you..."

"Yes," I cut him off firmly. "Because that's what growth looks like, Domino. Learning from past mistakes instead of letting them define you forever."

His thumb traces circles against my palm where our hands remain joined. "And your Kings? They'd allow this... evolution between us?"

A small smile plays at my lips. "They don't allow or disallow anything," I remind him. "I make my own choices. But," I add, seeing hope spark in his expression, "they'd need to see real change first. Real effort to be better."

"Better," he mutters, testing the word. "Not sure I know how to be that."

"Then learn," I say simply. "Take your medicine. Work on controlling your impulses. Prove that you can want something without needing to destroy it completely."

His eye searches my face, looking for deception or mockery. Finding none, his expression softens slightly. "And if I do all that? If I actually manage to become someone worthy of your trust?"

"Then maybe," I whisper, letting my free hand rest against his chest where his heart thunders beneath my palm, "we'll see what kind of taste you've earned."

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