Page 198 of Reckless Obsession

I swallow hard against the tight, humiliating burn behind my eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, my voice cracking at the edges. “I’m so sorry, Dante.”

His large, warm hands cup my face with unbearable tenderness. The simple reverence of the touch makes my chest ache so violently it feels bruised.

“Look at me,” he says, his baritone steady and grounding. “Amore, look at me, please.”

I force my eyes open. When my gaze meets his dark, sorrowful eyes, there isn’t a trace of fury or betrayal. There is only stillness and patience. A bottomless, devastating understanding that strips me bare.

“You are the most extraordinary person I have ever met, Maksim,” he says, his voice low and steady, as if he is afraid that anything louder might make me run.

“You are difficult,” he adds, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “You are stubborn. You are dramatic. You make every room louder just by entering it.”

A broken laugh escapes me.

“But you are also brave,” he continues. “You feel things so deeply that it frightens you, yet you keep trying to love. You keep creating beautiful things even when you do not believe you are capable of beauty yourself.”

My breath catches.

“You mean so much to me,” he says. “You are special to me.”

A painful pressure builds behind my ribs because I know where this is going; I can feel the weight of what he’s preparing to do.

“These past three months with you,” Dante says, his thumbs gliding gently along my cheekbones, “have been among the happiest of my life. I cannot remember the last time I felt this alive. Not in all my forty-three years.”

“Dante—”

“You deserve to be happy,” he says, cutting me off softly. “Not happy because you ran far enough away. Not happy because someone made the pain quieter for a while. Happy because you are living a life that is yours.”

My eyes burn.

He pauses, leaning down to press a soft kiss to my temple before pulling back to hold my gaze.

“It is time for you to go home,” he says quietly.

The words drop between us like lead. My pulse stutters in immediate panic.

“No. I’m fine here. We’re good here—”

“Amore—”

“No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to go back.”

“I know.”

“I cannot.” My voice fractures. “I just got away. I cannot go back and have everyone look at me like they know. I cannot sit there while they pretend not to see that I ran because I got my heart broken.”

Dante’s expression tightens, just briefly.

Not in anger, but in grief.

“You are not going back for them,” he replies. “Not only for your mother, your father, and your brothers. They love you, yes. They need you in their lives. But you cannot return simply because other people need you.”

I look away.

“You go back for yourself,” he continues. “You go back because hiding has given you rest, but it cannot give you closure or peace.”

The room goes quiet.