Page 53 of Lord of Obsession

His hands press harder against my wounds, the pain sharp enough to make spots dance at the edges of my vision. "Shut up. You don't get to die playing hero. Not for me."

A laugh bubbles up my throat, slick with blood and bitter amusement. "Not playing." I catch his wrist with my good hand, smearing red across expensive cotton. "Protecting what's mine."

Something flashes across his face—fury or fear or something deeper. Before he can respond, footsteps approach at a run. Joey appears at the edge of my vision, his usual tech-geek composure cracked by urgency.

"Sir, we've got incoming. MCPD just got an anonymous tip about shots fired. First responders are?—"

"Get the car." Rafael's command cuts through the chaos, carrying the weight of generations of authority. "Now."

My security team hesitates, caught between following their training and obeyingthe unexpected voice of command. I manage a small nod, giving permission they shouldn't need. The parking structure erupts into controlled motion as they execute the extraction protocols drilled into their bones.

More hands lift me, the movement sending fresh fire through my chest. Someone curses in rapid-fire Italian—me, probably, though the pain makes it hard to be sure if I said my thoughts out loud. The world blurs into snippets of sensation: rain on my face as they carry me to the waiting Maserati, leather seats cold against my back, engine roaring to life.

Rafael slides into the back seat beside me, his hands never leaving the wounds.He turns to Marco. "Drive. I'll tell you where."

"Sir?" Marco's question carries layers of meaning—asking me, not him, even as he follows Rafael's directions.

"Do it." The words come out as a growl, metallic liquid flooding my mouth. "Trust him."

The city streaks past in neon smears as Marco pushes the Maserati to its limits. Rain hammers against the car’s bulletproof glass, the storm matching the chaos of my pulse.Rafael's hands remain steady against my chest, his touch both a comfort and a torment.

"You're an idiot." His voice drops lower, meant for my ears alone. "I had an extraction plan. Contingencies. I didn't need?—"

"Couldn't risk it." Another wet laugh tears free. "Couldn't let them touch you. Break you. That's my job."

His fingers tighten, sending fresh pain blazing through my nervous system. "Your job?" His natural accent bleeds through his usually careful pronunciation. "Your obsession, you mean. Your sick game of unraveling everything I've built."

"Not a game." Blood makes it hard to speak, but these words matter. I need him to understand, even as darkness creeps at the edges of my vision. "Never just a game with you."

The admission hangs between us as Marco takes another corner too fast. Rafael's face swims above me, his perfect composure cracking to reveal something raw underneath. For a moment, I see past the masks we both wear—past family loyalty and calculated manipulation to something deeper. Something neither of us dared name.

Then the pain swallows everything, and I drift in and out of consciousness. Time loses meaning, measured only in the rhythm of Rafael's hands keeping pressure on my wounds. His voice fades in and out, giving directions I can't quite follow.

"...private clinic in Chelsea..."

"...Doctor Rossi owes me..."

"...no questions asked..."

The Maserati finally slows, then stops. Rain still drums against metal and glass, but the sound seems distant now. Far away, like everything except the fire in my chest and the weight of Rafael's touch.

"Stay with me." His command cuts through the gathering darkness. "Don't you dare die on me, you bastard. Not when I'm finally starting to understand?—"

But unconsciousness claims me before I can hear what he's finally beginning to comprehend. The last thing I feel is his fingers against my throat, checking for a pulse that grows weaker with each beat.

My last coherent thought is:mine.

Consciousness returns in fragments, each piece carrying its own flavor of agony. Antiseptic burns my nostrils,mixing with copper and old fear. Medical equipment beeps somewhere to my left, marking time with mechanical precision. The sound grates against instincts that scream about exposure, vulnerability, and too many windows without enough eyes on the door.

My body feels distant, like it’s wrapped in cotton and morphine fog. I try to perceive my surroundings, like my childhood training demanded, but everything goes soft at the edges. The private clinic's security is good, but not good enough. Not for what's coming.

Voices drift through the gap in the door, carrying tension despite their attempt at quiet.

"...three broken ribs, collapsed lung, major blood loss." A woman's voice, clinical and controlled. Must be Dr. Rossi, the one Rafael mentioned. "He's stable for now, but?—"

"How long until he can be moved?" Marco, a sharp edge to his tone.

A pause filled with medical machinery's steady rhythm. "We need a minimum of forty-eight hours to monitor him. The internal damage alone?—"

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