Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 161

The Ghosts Heir.

—

cedar, gun oil, and whatever pie Sissy’s been baking for someone who “just dropped by.” It’s a The road home always smells the same weird kind of comfort, this compound. Built out of blood, memory, and bad habits. Conner calls it home. Sissy calls it salvation. By the time I pull into the drive, the porch light’s off, but the living room glows faintly through the window. Someone’s awake. Of course they are. I kill the engine and sit for a moment, hands on the wheel, watching the smoke from my cigarette twist in the rearview mirror. I can still see her, that woman, framed in the windowlight, the faint curve of her wrist as she turned a page. That image has burned itself into the inside of my eyelids. I blink, and it’s still there.

The house greets me the same as it always does, the soft tick of the clock by the stairs, the faint creak in the floorboard two steps into the hall that I’ve been meaning to fix for a year. I could walk this place blindfolded and never trip. It’s muscle memory, just like violence.

soft, golden, I push open the door, toe off my boots, and glance toward the kitchen. Dark. The only light comes from the living room

low.

–

She’s there.

Sissy.

Sitting in the armchair like a disgruntled parent who’s been waiting up past her bedtime. The lamp beside her is dimmed, her book open but unread. She doesn’t even look up right away. Just says, voice smooth and calm, “Where have you been?”

I smirk. “Oh, you know. Out being an upstanding citizen in society.”

That earns a laugh, low and genuine, the kind that softens her whole face. She shakes her head, setting the book aside. “Don’t lie to me,

Diego. You’ve got Conner’s smirk and my patience for bullshit. It doesn’t work on me.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

She tilts her head, the ghost of a smile tugging her mouth. “Because I like to hear you talk. It gives me a better idea of what you’re not

saying.”

I move further into the room, drop onto the couch opposite her, elbows on my knees. “What makes you think I’m hiding anything?”

“Because you came in too quietly,” she says simply. “When you sneak, it’s either because you’re proud or guilty. And you look a bit of

both.”

That’s the thing about Sissy – she sees through me like glass. Always has. It’s annoying and comforting in equal measure.

“I was just out driving,” I say finally, shrugging one shoulder. “Needed some air.”

She hums softly, not buying it for a second. “You went near the Ricci estate.”

Not a question.

The Ghosts Heir.

I raise an eyebrow. “How the hell do you-”

She cuts me off with that little smirk of hers. “You think I don’t have eyes on you? You forget who taught you half of what you know?”

Touché.

“Relax,” I say, leaning back, smirking again. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“That’s a low bar, sweetheart,” she says dryly, standing and crossing to the sideboard where Connor keeps the whiskey. She pours herself a

glass and takes a slow sip. “So what was it, then? Curiosity?”

“Maybe.”

“Curiosity about what?”

I shrug, trying not to let too much slip. “Someone caught my attention.”

She turns, eyebrow arching. “Someone?”

I meet her gaze, holding it. “A woman.”

Sage laughs quietly, like she was expecting that answer, and it still somehow amuses her. “God help us all.”

“It’s not like that,” I say quickly.

“Oh? Then what’s it like?”

I hesitate, because the truth sounds even worse when spoken out loud. “I just… wanted to know who she was. What her place is. How she

fits into things.”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “And?”

“And nothing. I watched. That’s all.”

There’s a long pause, not judgmental, just heavy with thought. Then she exhales, shaking her head with that familiar mix of frustration

and pride that only Sissy can pull off.

“You’ve got the same sickness I do,” she says softly. “The one where you can’t stop pulling at threads just to see what unravels.”

I smile, small and real. “Yeah, well… guess it runs in the family.”

She steps closer, setting her glass down beside me. “Listen to me, Diego. There’s a difference between control and chaos. You start

confusing the two, you’ll lose more than you mean to.”

The Ghosts Heir.

“I’m not confused.”

She studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “No. That’s what worries me.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy but not hostile. She leans down, presses a kiss to the top of my head like she used to when I was a kid, and murmurs, “Try not to burn the world down before breakfast, alright?”

“Can’t promise that,” I mutter, and she chuckles on her way up the stairs.

When she’s gone, I sit there in the quiet for a while, the taste of cigarette smoke and jasmine still clinging to me. The moonlight spills through the window, pale and sharp, and I catch my reflection in the glass. Same smirk. Same eyes. Different monster. I drag a hand through my hair and grin to myself.

“She worries too much,” I murmur. “I’ve got this under control.”

And maybe I do. Or perhaps that’s the first lie I’ve ever told myself and actually believed.

Sage

I stand by the window, glass of whiskey in hand, watching the faint orange glow of his cigarette flare and fade outside his room. He thinks I don’t see it. The restlessness. The sharpness. That pull toward the dark that only people like us ever really understand. Connor calls it

the O’Neill curse. I call it truth. Diego was raised steady when we brought him in, but somewhere along the way that steadiness turned

inward and twisted… There’s something in his eyes now that wasn’t there before. Not cruelty. Not yet. Just… comfort. Comfort in the

places most people avoid. I can’t blame him for it. How could I? He’s my shadow and Connor’s fire; the best and worst of both of us welded together. I spent years teaching him precision, restraint, the beauty in quiet violence, in case he needed it, and now I’m terrified

of what he’ll do with it. He’s careful, but not cautious. Brilliant, but bored. That’s a lethal combination. I take another sip, the burn

grounding me. Outside, his window goes dark.

“Don’t lose yourself, little ghost,” I whisper to the night, though I know he can’t hear me.

Because the truth is, every time I look at him, I see the part of me that never stopped hunting – and I know how easily the dark can start

to look like home.