Page 54 of Lord of Obsession

"We don't have forty-eight hours." Rafael's voice cuts through the discussion, that slightaccent bleeding stronger with stress. "The Ferraras are already moving. They'll know he survived by now."

My fingers twitch against starched sheets, my hands instinctively reaching for weapons that aren’t there. The movement sends a fresh wave of fire through nerve endings that aren’t quite deadened by whatever's dripping through my IV. A grunt escapes before I can swallow it.

Footsteps approach—three sets, distinctly different patterns. Rafael reaches my bedside first, his expensive shoes, now destroyed by the firefight, silent against linoleum. Training never quite fades.

"You're an idiot," he repeats. The words carry equal parts fury and something else I’m too woozy to decipher. "Taking bullets meant for me. Playing hero."

I force my eyes open, my vision doing somersaults before it locks onto his face. The perfect suit is gone, replaced by clothes that probably came from some emergency stash. But even in borrowed fabric, he carries that deadly grace that I’ve come to love.

"Not..." Speaking feels like gargling glass,but I manage it anyway. "Not playing anything."

His hands clench at his sides, knuckles white with restraint. Behind him, Marco and the doctor exchange looks heavy with meaning. They know, even if Rafael won't admit it. They know that I'd take another bullet, a dozen bullets, to keep anyone else from breaking what's mine.

"The Ferrara attack wasn't random." Rafael's voice drops lower, meant for my ears alone. "They knew about us. About...whatever this is. They used it to draw you out to take you down."

"Doesn't matter." Blood makes my voice rough, but the words emerge clear enough. "No one touches what's mine."

Something flashes across his face—frustration or understanding or both. Before he can respond, a phone buzzes. Marco checks the screen, his expression turning to granite.

"Sir, Ferrara soldiers spotted three blocks south."

The heart monitor's steady beep accelerates as I try to push upright. Fresh agony blazes through my chest, but trainingoverrides physical limitations. "Get me a weapon. Now."

"You can't even stand." Rafael's hand finds my shoulder, pressing me back against the flattened pillows. The touch burns even through bandages and morphine haze. "You'll tear the stitches and start the internal bleeding again."

"Then I'll bleed." I catch his wrist, smearing red across clean gauze where the IV pulled loose. "But I won't let them?—"

"Let them, what?" His fingers curl against my skin, not quite a caress. "Take me? Break me? I chose this life, Dario. I chose to walk away from my family’s protection. The consequences are mine to handle. Mine and mine alone."

The words hit harder than bullets, and something sharp and vital twists in my chest. Beyond the clinic room's door, footsteps move with trained precision. My security team shifts positions, preparing for what comes next. The doctor has already vanished, plausible deniability in sensible shoes.

"You don't understand." Blood makes it hard to focus, but I need him to not just hearbut understand me. "Not about protection. About possession. About?—"

"About control." He finishes the thought, something raw bleeding through his careful mask. "About breaking me down and rebuilding me in your image. I know. I've always known."

Marco appears in the doorway, his weapon already drawn. "Two minutes. Maybe less."

Rafael's hand slips from my grasp as he straightens, that killer's grace asserting itself despite borrowed clothes and exhaustion. For a moment, I see him as he truly is—not the pampered heir playing at a normal life, but a weapon crafted from birth.

Beautiful and lethal and finally starting to remember.

"Get him out." The command carries authority in its undertones. "Take the back exit and use the contingency routes we discussed. I'll handle the Ferrara problem."

"Like hell." I try to rise again, but the drugs and blood loss betray me. The world tilts sideways as my vision blurs. "You can't?—"

"Can't what?" His smile carries edges sharp enough to cut. "Can't fight?Can't kill? You've spent months stripping away my masks, Dario. Showing me exactly what I am." He checks his weapon with practiced precision. "Time to reap what you've sown."

The last thing I see before unconsciousness claims me again is Rafael's silhouette in the doorway, his frame wrapped with power and violence. The last thing I think is:I love you.

Even if it destroys us both.

SEVENTEEN

RAFAEL

I check my weapon one final time as Dario loses consciousness on the clinic bed. His last words—another protest against my handling of the Ferrara threat—fade into the steady beep of medical equipment. Behind me, Marco's team prepares for evacuation, their movements carrying the precise efficiency of men who've done this before.

"Get him out." The command feels natural in my mouth, years of family authority rising to the surface despite my attempted escape from that life. "Use the contingency routes we discussed. I'll handle this."

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