Page 30 of Lord of Obsession

"Finally showing your true nature." I press closer, pinning him with my body weight. Raw satisfaction burns through me as his careful façade crumbles. "The heir your uncle always wanted."

The crowd's energy shifts, hungry for more intimate violence. They sense something electric building between us, something beyond simple combat. Rafael's chest heaves against mine as he struggles, but the position forces him to feel every point of contact, every line of heat where skin meets skin.

"Fuck you." The curse slips out in Sicilian, his voice shattered by rage and want.

I laugh against his throat, tasting salt. "That's it. Let him out. Let everyone see exactly what you've been hiding under all that expensive education."

He explodes into motion, raw power breaking my hold. The reversal carries us both to the ground, a tangle of limbs and shared breath. The concrete scrapes skin from my shoulders as he pins me, one forearm pressed hard against my throat. His eyes burn with something darker than simple fury, something that makes my blood sing with recognition.

"This what you wanted?" The words come rough with promise as he applies more pressure. "To prove I'm just like you?"

I buck my hips, using his momentary distraction to flip our positions. My hands find his wrists, pinning them above his head as I settle my weight across his thighs. "No, baby." I lean down until my lips brush his ear. "I wanted to prove you're exactly what they made you. What we both are."

His body goes wire-tight beneath mine. I catch the slight tremor in his muscles, the way his pulse races visible at his throat. Thecrowd's noise fades further, leaving us suspended in this moment of raw truth. Every breath carries the scent of blood and sweat and inevitability.

"I could break your hold." His voice drops lower, intimate despite our audience. "Three moves."

"But you won't." I shift my grip, letting him feel the strength I usually keep leashed. "Because you're tired of pretending. Tired of maintaining that perfect control." My thumb finds his pulse point, reading the chaos in his heartbeat. "You’re tired of denying what burns between us, aren’t you?"

Someone in the crowd whistles—in appreciation or warning, I'm not sure. The sound breaks our private moment, reminding us of prying eyes. Rafael uses the distraction to bridge up, nearly breaking my hold. The movement brings our bodies flush, and I feel the exact moment his resistance transforms into something else entirely.

"That's it." I roll with his momentum, letting him think he's gaining advantage. "Stop thinking like a lawyer. Feel it. The push and pull. The perfect dance of dominance and submission." Each word punctuates a shift inposition, a redistribution of power between us. "This is what you were born for."

His response comes in the form of an elbow strike that nearly catches my temple. I counter, redirecting his force into a twist that brings us chest to chest again. My hand finds his throat, thumb pressing against his carotid just enough to remind him of his mortality. His pulse jumps beneath my touch, racing with more than simple combat high.

The underground space fills with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, of shared breath and bitten-back sounds that could be pain or pleasure. Light catches the sweat on his skin, turning him golden as he arches into my hold. The movement exposes his throat, a display of submission that makes something primitive in my chest purr with satisfaction.

"You remember now?" I ease the pressure just enough to let him speak. "You remember how it feels to stop pretending? To embrace exactly what you are?"

His eyes meet mine, pupils blown wide with violence and want. Blood from my split lip drips onto his chest, staining the black cotton even darker. The sight ignites something possessive in my gut. I want to mark himdeeper. I want to carve my name into his bones until he can't deny what exists between us.

The fight has drawn us to the edge of the marked ring. One more move would carry us into darkness, away from the crowd's hungry gaze. Rafael reads the intent in my eyes. Of course he does; we speak the same language of violence and need. His resistance wavers, control slipping further with each shared breath.

"Time to choose," I murmur against his skin. "Keep playing student, or admit what you really want."

The underground air grows heavier, charged with possibilities. His hands fist in my shirt, caught between pushing me away and pulling me closer. Everything we are, everything we've been trained to be crystallizes in this moment of perfect understanding.

This is what I've been pushing for since that first night in the library. This perfect suspension between violence and surrender, between denial and truth. His careful walls crumble further with each heartbeat, with each drop of blood that paints his skin.

It's time to end this fight and start something infinitely moredangerous.

The fight ends with my opponent splayed across cracked concrete, more unconscious than not. Blood spatters my knuckles, wet and warm. I wipe it off on my jeans, letting the rough fabric scrape against split skin. The crowd's roar fades to white noise as I turn to face Rafael, tilting my head in invitation.

"Your move, killer."

After gathering his bearings, he stands at the ring's edge, shoulders tight under cotton damp with sweat and rust-colored stains. The dim light paints his features in harsh relief, all sharp angles and caged ferocity straining to break free. I see the war behind his eyes, the endless battle between who he pretends to be and the truth raging to escape.

I step toward him, deliberate and measured. "Come on, Rafael. Show them what a Valenti is really made of."

His throat works as he swallows. The simple tell sends anticipation spiking through my blood, electric and alive. He's close, so damn close to snapping. To admitting defeat and embracing the monster inside.

Around us, the crowd's energy swells like storm clouds. They sense the real fight building between us, the one that has nothingto do with exchanging blows. I catch flashes of money changing hands, side bets rising with each step I take in his direction.

"Last chance to run." My voice comes out rough, scraped raw with darker promises. "Last chance to pretend you don't crave this as much as I do."

His eyes flicker, a flash of amber in the gloom. For a moment, I think he might actually bolt. Vanish back into the shadows and the safety of his carefully constructed illusions. But then his chin lifts, stubborn pride winning out over self-preservation.

"I'm not going anywhere."

---