Page 56 of Lord of Obsession

Dr. Danielle Mercer meets me in the private elevator, her expression neutral as she swipes a keycard for the secure floor. "The transfer was successful, though not without complications. His blood pressure dropped during transport, and we had to?—"

"Show me." The words are sharp enough to cut. I've spent the drive here imagining every possible disaster, every way the transport could have gone wrong.

She leads me through corridors that reek of antiseptic and old-world money, past doors with keypad locks and silent guards. The security measures should feel oppressive.Instead, they settle something restless in my chest. Here, at least, the Ferraras can't easily reach us.

"He's been in and out of consciousness." Dr. Mercer's voice drops lower as we approach Dario’s room. "The pain medication makes him...unpredictable. He keeps asking for you."

Heat floods my face at her careful tone. Of course he's been asking for me. Even half-dead, Dario won't stop pushing, won't stop trying to strip away my carefully maintained composure.

The private suite could pass for a luxury hotel room if not for the medical equipment lining the walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a view of the sunrise, though I know the glass is thick enough to stop a .50-caliber round. The morning light catches Dario's face, turning him almost ethereal against the stark white sheets.

"Your doing?" His voice is still rough but stronger than before. "This fancy cage?"

"Rest." I move to check his monitors, letting medical routine mask how my hands want to shake. "You lost enough blood without wasting energy on conversation."

His laugh carries edges of pain. "Always so controlled. Even now." His fingers brush my wrist as I adjust his IV. "Even after what you did at the clinic."

The touch burns, even through layers of gauze and carefully maintained distance. I try to pull away, but his grip tightens with desperate strength.

"The Ferrara soldiers?" His eyes track my face, reading truths I can't quite hide. "How many?"

"Enough." I don't elaborate. I don't tell him how naturally the violence flowed, how easily I slipped back into the killer they bred me to be. "It's handled."

Something dark and hungry flashes across his features. "Wish I could have seen it, you finally embracing what you are." His thumb traces patterns against my pulse point. "You finally stopping the endless fucking illusion."

"Don't." But I'm not sure what I'm protesting: his words or the way my body responds to his touch.

"Why not?" He shifts, trying to sit up despite the pain that makes his breath catch. "Why keep lying to yourself after everythingthat's happened? After what you did to protect?—"

"I said don't." I press him back against the pillows, gentle despite the steel in my voice. "You need to heal. Need to focus on?—"

"On what?" His free hand finds my collar, pulling me closer. "On getting stronger so we can go back to our little dance? So you can pretend you don't feel this?" His fingers slide to my throat, reading the chaos in my pulse. "So you can keep running from what's between us?"

The monitors track his elevated heart rate as I try to stay composed. But he's right. I'm tired of running and denying the gravity that draws us together despite every rational argument against it.

"I killed them for you." The confession tears free before I can stop it. "Not for tactical advantage or family politics. For you."

His smile carries equal parts triumph and tenderness. "I know." He tugs me closer still, until our breaths mingle in the space between us. "Just like I took those bullets for you. Because you're?—"

"Don't say it." But we both know it's toolate for denial. Too late for anything but the truth.

"Mine," he finishes, the word a benediction and a curse wrapped into one.

This time, I don't pull away, and he tugs me closer until I'm perched on the edge of his hospital bed, his hand a brand against my skin.

The word hangs between us—"mine"—carrying weight I can no longer deny. His grip on my collar loosens but doesn't release, as if he’s afraid I'll bolt the moment he lets go. And maybe I would have, once. Maybe I'd have run back to my meticulously ordered world of legal briefs and moral certainty.

But I'm tired of running.

I sink into the chair beside his bed, letting his hand slide from my collar to my throat. The touch should feel threatening . This is Dario Greco after all, the man who's systematically destroyed every wall I've built. Instead, it feels like I’m home.

Minutes stretch in comfortable silence as sunrise creeps across the room. The medical equipment's steady rhythm marks time between words neither of us quite knows how tosay. His thumb traces patterns against my pulse, as if reading truth in its chaos.

"Why did you walk away from your family?" The question comes out soft but carries steel beneath. "Really. Not the bullshit about wanting a clean life or escaping violence."

I should pull back and maintain the careful distance that's kept me sane these past three years. Instead, I find myself sinking into the chair beside his bed, letting exhaustion strip away pretense.

"I thought..." The words catch, years of carefully maintained lies dissolving like sugar in rain. "I thought if I could understand the system—I mean really understand it—I could find a way out. Not just for me, but for everyone trapped in this life."

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