Page 52 of Savage Obsession

Because deep down, I know—this isn’t about control.

This is about Aithan’s obsession with keeping me safe.

And God help whoever tries to take me away from him again.

The days in the penthouse are a study in contrasts. One moment, Aithan is the perfect husband—bringing me breakfast in bed, watching over me like I’m made of porcelain, pressing kisses to my temple as he murmurs, “You need to eat more, my love.”

The next, he’s suffocating me with his paranoia.

"You don’t need to leave the penthouse," he declares one afternoon, blocking the door as I attempt to step out onto the balcony.

Feeling frustrated, I huffed in his face that I’m not going to vanish into thin air. "I just want some fucking fresh air."

"Then open a damn window," he'd growled, his jaw tightening.

His mood has been swinging between devoted protector and overbearing tyrant, and I don’t know which one frustrates me more.

At night, it’s worse.

The security detail outside the penthouse doubles—as if an army is required to guard one woman. His phone is constantly buzzing with updates from Leon, his father, and his men, all reporting their progress on tracking down the assassin.

And through it all, he barely sleeps.

I wake up some nights to find him sitting by the window, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, the city lights casting long shadows across his face. He’s tense, his entire body rigid, like he’s waiting for the war to come to him.

But he doesn't talk about it.

Doesn’t talk about anything.

And it’s eating him alive.

The Breaking Point finally happens on a night like any other.

The room is dark except for the golden glow of the bedside lamp. I wake up to the bed shifting, Aithan's weight heavy beside me.

I turn, expecting to find him lost in another sleepless night, but what I don’t expect is the way he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, shoulders tense like he’s holding himself together by a thread.

"Aithan?" My voice is thick with sleep.

He doesn’t answer.

He’s staring at his hands, the fingers curled into his palms like he wants to crush something—or like he’s trying to hold on to something that’s already slipping through his grasp.

I sit up, reaching out, but the moment my fingers graze his skin, he exhales shakily—a sound I’ve never heard from him before.

"Aithan," I whisper again, this time more urgent.

His head dips, and his breathing turns ragged, like he’s fighting a battle inside himself, one that he’s losing.

Then, softly, he breaks.

"I lost them," he says, his voice raw, barely more than a breath.

The words hit me like a knife to the ribs.

I freeze, watching as his hands tremble, his control cracking right in front of me.

He doesn’t say their names. Doesn’t say wife or son, but I know exactly who he means.

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