Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 66

Swapping Roles.

When the door clicked shut behind Matteo and the doc, the room felt too big for its four walls. Too quiet, except for the soft metronome of her heart on the monitor and the drag of my own breath. I went to the bathroom, filled a bowl with warm water until steam curled off it, grabbed a clean washcloth, a stack of gauze, the mild soap Matteo left, the softest towel I owned. Back at the bed, I set everything on the nightstand and pulled a chair close.

“Hey, little ghost,” I murmured, more to anchor myself than her. “I’m just gonna make you human again.”

The first pass of the cloth across her temple turned the water pink. Blood and dust lifted in slow swirls, drifting off as if the worst of it could be rinsed away. I worked careful, deliberate, around the tape at her shoulder, along the line of stitches hugging her ribs, under the curve of her jaw where ash had settled like war paint. Every bruise had a shape; I memorized them. Every cut had a story; I promised myself I’d return each one to the hand that wrote it. She didn’t stir. I took that as permission. I slipped an arm beneath her neck and lifted just enough to slide the towel under, patting her hair dry between passes. The silver of it was matted with grime; I teased it loose with my fingers until it lay smooth again, soft as smoke against the pillow. The copper smell in the room faded, replaced by soap and the faint ghost of my cologne clinging to the sheets. Her lashes cast shadows on cheekbones gone too sharp. God, I missed her eyes. The green that could cut through a man and leave him thanking her for the privilege. “Open them later,” I whispered. “Not now. Now you

rest.”

When I’d cleaned what I could without touching Matteo’s work, I reached into the dresser and pulled out my favorite green button–down, the same shade that makes her eyes look like fresh glass. Hers, if I’m honest. She’d claimed it the first night she walked into my kitchen like she owned the place and I hadn’t argued. I won’t ever argue.

“Let’s get you decent,” I said quietly. I unfastened the hospital gown, moved slow and steady, mindful of tape and tubes. I fed her good arm through the sleeve, then the injured side. I supported the shoulder, eased fabric over bandage without dragging skin. Button by button, I closed the shirt around her. It swallowed her small frame, collarbones disappearing beneath the cotton. I rolled the cuffs twice so her fingers peeked out. Stupid detail but it felt important

anyway.

I tucked the hem loose over the blanket so nothing pulled when she breathed. Checked lines again. Checked the monitor again. Counted. Because counting is what you do when the world tries to come apart, one beat, then the next, then the next, until there’s a rhythm to live by. Out in the hall, I could hear Liam’s low voice, Matteo’s quieter one, Nico pacing grooves into tile. The file Ari dropped sat on the dresser, thin and heavy at the same time. I slid it into the drawer. Later. I’d carry that weight so she didn’t have to. I wet the cloth once more, wrung it out, and pressed it cool to her forehead. My thumb traced the edge of her brow, the little scar there I’d never noticed until now. “You did it,” I told her, voice rough. “You lasted. I’ve got it from here.”

I killed the overheads and left the lamp on low. Set a bottle of water by the bed for when she came back to me. Pulled the chair to her side and sat with a pistol on my thigh, my phone face down, and her hand in mine. Time to rest, her body said. Time to wait, the war outside said.

A few hours later the door eased open on a whisper of hinges. Three heads appeared in a stack, Liam at the top, Nico under him, Matteo anchoring the

totem.

“She’s still out,” Liam breathed, stepping in first. He took one look at Sage in my green shirt and softened. “Finally got Naomi down,” he added, voice low. “Don’t ask how.”

“I’m not asking,” I said, not looking away from Sage. “And I don’t want to know.”

Liam’s mouth ticked up anyway, chest puffing like an idiot peacock before Nico elbowed him.

“Probably best we use the quiet to prep our first marks,” Nico murmured, lifting a tablet. “Windows, routes, contingencies, if we’re doing this in her stead, we do it right.”

My jaw worked. The file Ari left might as well have been a bomb in my drawer. I tightened my hand around Sage’s, feeling the steady heat of her skin. Leaving her felt wrong in a way I couldn’t logic past, Matteo read it on my face. He set his med bag on the chair opposite me, clicked the lamp a notch brighter, and checked the pulse ox with a practiced glance. “I’ll sit with her,” he said, simple and certain. “Vitals are holding; pain’s managed. I won’t move

until she does.”

I hesitated. He didn’t.

*I’ll call if anything changes,” he added, meeting my eyes. “Even if it’s just her breathing different.”

I slid my pistol onto the nightstand within his reach and bent to press a kiss to Sage’s knuckles. “I’ll be close,” I told her, even if she couldn’t hear it. “Back before you miss me.”

7:27 pm &

Swapping Roles.

Liam clapped my shoulder on the way out. “Come on, Romeo. We’ve got homework.”

0:་།

We moved quict, past the guest room where Naomi slept sprawled diagonally, one arm over her eyes, Liam’s hoodie drowning her small frame. He paused, softened again, then kept walking. War room lights came up low. Nico slid three slim dossiers across the table and brought a map up on the screens.

“Mark one. Naomi’s file,” he said, tapping the Midtown cluster. “Name: Victor Hale. Private banker laundering through legacy shells tied to Mirov. Routine: late nights, Thursdays, client dinners‘ that are actually server–room audits. Security: one driver, one floater in the lobby, building cams on a lazy sweep.”

Liam rolled his shoulder, grin thin. “So he’s mine.”

“Yeah,” Nico said. “And it has to look like Naomi did it.” He flicked to a second pane: Naomi’s historical, blurred silhouettes, muzzle distances, the forensic footprints Yakov’s people expect to see. “No hero theatrics. You emulate her tempo, her range, her… flair.”

Liam side–eyed the folder. “Her flair wears Cherry Bomb lipstick.”

Nico didn’t smile. “Funny. But there are patterns, angles, timings, how she ghosts pre- and post- scene. I’ll guide you. You go at 18:40. If anything goes sideways, Conner’s still dark then and can pivot.”

He turned to me. “Mark two, Sage’s. East docks, Pier 17. A courier moving dead drops for a rival crew sniffing at the territory. He’s scheduled to lift at 22:15. You make it look like Specter. Quiet. Clean. Cameras sleep. Package vanishes.”

1 felt Liam glance my way. “You get to be your girl. Lucky bastard.”

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