Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 68

I’ve Got a Life To Build You.

The front door hadn’t even swung shut before I heard it, shouting, boots, the scrape of furniture. We’d been ghosts all night and came home to a fucking hurricane. Naomi was the eye of it. Ten of my guys had her corralled in the foyer, a loose circle like they were trying to pen a wildcat without losing fingers. She was barefoot, bloodied lip, pupils still a little blown from pain and adrenaline, snarling in three languages and fighting the hold like it had personally insulted her ancestors.

“Naomi.” Liam’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

The room stilled. Not because he shouted, he didn’t. He went low. Serious. The tone you use when you expect obedience and mean it. She froze mid–step. Shoulders went tight. A shiver ran through her so quick you’d miss it if you blinked.

Huh. She liked that.

“Stand,” he said, calm as Sunday mass. “Like a good girl.”

Her chin lifted. For a beat I thought she’d launch herself at him just to make a point. Instead she exhaled, rolled her shoulders back, and did exactly as told. Feet together, hands at her sides, breathing hard but steady.

“Now,” Liam continued, stepping into her space, “you are going to walk back to our room. You’re going to lie down. And you’re going to wait. I will deal with you in a minute.”

Every man in that circle suddenly found a riveting spot on the wall to stare at. Naomi’s mouth curved, defiant, pleased, dangerous.

“Okay,” she said, voice rough silk. She brushed past the line like they weren’t there, never taking her eyes off Liam as she went down the hall.

Liam glanced over his shoulder at me and winked, the bastard. I stood there like an idiot for half a heartbeat, trying to reconcile the feral hellcat from thirty seconds ago with the woman who just answered to his voice like it was a commandment.

“Show’s over,” I told the lads, clapping once. “Back to posts. And if anyone puts hands on her again without Liam’s say–so, you’ll be pulling perimeter in the rain for a month.”

They scattered gratefully.

I didn’t waste another second. I took the stairs two at a time and shouldered into my room. Matteo hadn’t moved. He was in the same chair where I’d left him, forearms braced on his knees, eyes steady on Sage. She looked too small in my green shirt, bandages stark against skin, hair clean but wild where I’d combed it back hours ago.

“No change,” Matteo said without looking at me, voice stripped down to the bones. “Vitals are holding. Fever’s down a touch.”

My eyes tracked every rise and fall of her chest like I could will them to keep going. “Any signs of pain?”

“She doesn’t stir when I check,” he said. “It’s good, her body’s choosing rest.”

I moved to the edge of the bed and sat, careful not to jostle the lines. I took her hand, thumb tracing the ridge of her knuckles.

“Okay,” I breathed.

Matteo finally looked up. “How’d the work go?”

“Done,” I said. “Clean. Quiet.”

He nodded once, satisfied. The house settled around us, distant voices, a door, the hush of night slipping back into its corners.

I leaned closer, lowering my forehead to the back of her hand. “Come back to me, ghost,” I whispered. “I miss you baby.”

I left the room only when Matteo made me, a tilt of his head that said go rinse the night off before you scare the nurses we don’t have. The shower hissed

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7:27 pm 8 D

I’ve Got a Life To Build You.

to life and turned the mirror to fog. I stood there longer than I meant to, hands braced on tile, steam clawing the ache out of my shoulders. The spray hammered my scalp, all I could hear was her pulse on the monitor, phantom and steady in my head. When the water ran lukewarm, I shut it off, dragged on sweats and a clean tee, and went straight back. Still sleeping. Same position. Same stubborn, humming life under the machines.

“Good girl,” I murmured, brushing my thumb over the curve of her cheekbone. “Keep fighting.”

I made myself go to the kitchen. Toast, eggs, nothing fancy. Ate half of it standing at the counter, the other half on the walk back to the bedroom. Set a bottle of water on the nightstand for when, not if she woke and got thirsty. Checked her lines. Checked the dressings. Checked the way her lashes lay against her skin like soot on snow. Emails next. War doesn’t stop for love. I opened the laptop at the small desk by the window and burned through the inbox: suppliers rescheduling after the docks incident, an accountant pretending not to panic about “unexpected security expenditures,” three would be meetings I pushed a week out. Every third message, I looked over my shoulder. Every third breath, I listened to be sure hers was still there. By late afternoon the house had gone quiet. Liam and Naomi were apparently occupying each other instead of terrorizing my men. Matteo swapped out fluids and left. I propped the pillows behind her carefully and slid the TV on. Some old black–and–white with bad sound and trench coats. I lay on top of the covers beside her, close enough that my arm touched hers without crowding the dressings. The picture flickered shadows across her face, painting her soft and dangerous by turns. It suited her. Night seeped in around the edges of the curtains. I killed the TV and let the room fall to that sleepy blue darkness that makes truths easier to

say.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” I said, voice low, eyes on her mouth, “but I’m going to talk anyway.”

I told her stupid things first. Then I told her the rest.

“I kept all of it,” I said, and the admission warmed my throat. “Every… gift. The hands, downstairs, wrapped and tagged. I know that’s sick to most people. I know. But they were yours. Proof that you were watching, protecting. I couldn’t throw them away.”

I smiled into the dark. “The bullets, too. Shelf in the safe, the ones with your lipstick, the one you left on my pillow. The notes. The napkin from Inferno with the kiss. And the pillowcases, yeah. The ones that smelled like you. Airtight, labeled like I was cataloging stars. You think I didn’t notice when you switched brands? I noticed.”

My hand found her knuckles under the sheet and folded over them. The room hummed with machines, the old house settling, the world outside turning without our permission.

“I want to show you,” I whispered. “To see your face when you realize I’ve been just as gone for you as you’ve been for me. I want you to open those eyes and roll them at me for being sentimental and then tell me how we’re going to burn the rest of this rotten world down.” I said, cheek against the back of her hand. “I’ve got a life to build you, and I’m not starting without your smart mouth giving me directions.”

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