Page 47 of Shadows of Obsession

“Change first. We'll talk at my place. I promise you.” Something in his voice melts my resistance.

One night. I just need one night to get my head straight.

At least, that's the lie I keep telling myself. I turn away from him to peel off my Metallica shirt - now looking like a prop from a slasher film - and barely manage to get it off and reach for another before his voice fills the room.

"Who left those marks on your back?"

Fuck. I completely forgot about the scars.

"It doesn't matter now."

I try to seem resigned about it, although suddenly all my insecurities are activated.

"Yes it does, Luna. Because depending on your answer, the unfortunate person who caused those scars will go through a thousand knives while praying to all the deities he’d never touched your skin," he tells me with such certainty.

And my heart can't take anymore.

Because it's too much.

He's too caring, too sweet, too much at the same time, and I’m far too likely to fall in love with this man. I know I have problems. He just threatened someone who hurt me with death, and all I feel is a pleasant warmth in my chest.

And that's exactly what scares me - I'm perfectly aware how emotionally vulnerable I am, and I know that if I experience more such moments and words, I won't resist anymore. And this time, I'm not sure I'll find the strength to pick myself up from the floor.

"I had an ex-boyfriend who got into debt with some people who didn't accept late payments. One of them, to convince him to hurry with the money, broke into my apartment, tied meto a chair and gave him an hour to come. He was twenty-three minutes late, so I received his artwork on my back for the twenty-three minutes Aidan wasted." The words come out whispered because if I say them louder, I'm afraid of bringing him back into my life.

The traces of the dream with that scene are still fresh in my mind. It took me so long to break away from Aidan and everything the relationship with him meant that I don't even want to mention him for fear the universe might think I'm invoking him somehow.

I put on a sports bra and a sweater, along with a pair of high-waisted jeans, and turn to grab some clothes to put in a backpack.

Roman's gaze is one that would freeze hell over. At other times maybe I would have been more conscious of changing in front of my boss, but my mind moves as though through molasses. I don't care that he sees me in underwear. I just know he's here. I know I need to recover.

I'm not planning to stay several days at his house, but after the tone of his voice when he told me to change, he doesn't seem to be in negotiation mode, so I pretend to pack for a few nights’ stay.

When I finish and raise my eyes to him, I see how any trace of gentleness has evaporated, and I can literally feel fury seeping through all his pores. In the diffused bedroom light, his eyes appear a dark gray, almost black, and one of his fists is clenched so tightly it’s trembling.

"Come on, a doctor is waiting at my place to examine you when we arrive," is all he tells me while turning and leaving the bedroom.

Roman's gaze meets Anton's, and it seems a telepathic discussion takes place between them because Roman only answers him with, "Two hours."

He holds the door, waiting for me to step through with my bag.

The ride to Roman's place is painfully quiet - too many questions swirling in my head to relax. I've played the 'don't ask, don't tell' game before, and it only dragged me deeper into trouble. This time I need to know what I'm walking into.

When we pull up, I barely register the mansion's massive size or the armed guards patrolling the grounds. I just follow numbly until we reach a bright hallway - sand-colored walls, black marble floors, and a console table on the left covered in flowers.

The scent of lilies starts working its magic, my shoulders finally beginning to drop, when I hear a woman's voice.

"God, Ro, poor thing, what happened to her?"

When I turn toward the sound of the voice, I see a lady about sixty years old, dressed in a robe with her hair in a bun. She has the kind of hair that you can tell how silky it is just by looking at it, and eyes that seem to have endured much but in which empathy still shines.And God, how they shine with empathy now.

I surely look like hell.

"Luna, this is Anuska, and she'll make you a cup of tea," I hear Roman say.

The woman looks suspiciously at him, as if she doesn't know whether to obey or protest, but nods and heads toward a room I assume is the kitchen. I manage to murmur a "Pleased to meet you," but I don't think she hears me.

"Come on, the doctor is in the living room." He signals toward a room on the right of the hallway.

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