Page 42 of King of Obsession

That shit hadn’t happened in almost a decade.

I threw my neck back, thinking of how to navigate her and my mission as morning seeped into the room.

A tendril of light grew bolder as it stretched across the floorboards and climbed to where we lay.

When dawn’s chorus began its symphony outside, I disentangled myself from her, cool air rushing in to fill the space I vacated.

‘Fotto,’ I hissed at the pain from the back of my head.

Confirming Cleo’s assessment that I must have hit it on something during the gunfight.

Her breath hitched at my vocalization, yet she remained in slumber.

I lingered beside the bed, staring down at her for a beat before I turned and left.

My muscles protested each movement, and the ache in my shoulder was a constant reminder of the previous night’s chaos.

The cool wooden floor grounded me as I crossed the room.

I found a jug of water and drank straight from it with thirst, liquid splashing down my chin and chest, restoring a fragment of myself.

Only then did I look around. Seeing her cabin bathed in a new light.

The space was simple, practical, and ordered.

Books lined the shelves, their spines perfect in alignment.

A small dining table displayed a single, vibrant potted plant, and no stray paper or utensil was in sight.

Cleo valued order, perhaps as a counterbalance to the unpredictability of the outside world. Her environment was austere but warm, inviting an appreciation for simplicity.

I trailed my fingers over a plush throw on the sofa, then winced as a sharp twinge shot through my side. With a sigh, I tested the limits of my discomfort.

At least I could still manage the basics. Pouring water, reaching for something on a high shelf, and even driving if necessary. However, I had to stabilize my joint to prevent further pain.

Gritting my teeth, I found Cleo’s first aid kit.

The contents were organized, just like everything else in her home. I fumbled for a moment before grasping the bandages, then fashioned a crude brace across my chest to immobilize my shoulder. My free hand did most of the work, tightening the fabric and securing it with a pin.

As I leaned against the cool sink, another discomfort demanded attention—I needed to piss.

A quick scan of the shack revealed no bathroom. I pushed aside a sheer window curtain, my gaze settling on a small outhouse adjacent to the cabin.

With a sigh of resignation and amusement, I shook my head at Cleo’s rustic lifestyle.

Finding my boots beside hers at the door, I tugged them on and slipped outside, careful not to wake her.

The early dawn greeted me with a biting chill that stung my cheeks, oddly purifying. The trill of birds pierced the silence, a symphony of wild calls.

As the sun crested the horizon, painting the heavens pink and orange, I understood the primal allure of this isolation.

This stunning wilderness contrasted the urban chaos that had often ruled my life as a Son of Honor and one of the Kings of Omertà.

How easy it would be to lose oneself in the embraceof such solitude, to become a mere echo among the trees and the endless sky.

The morning chill nipped at my skin as I made my way to the outhouse.

As I entered, the door creaked on its hinges.

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