Page 31 of Reckless Obsession

His entire body tenses instantly.

“Do not come any closer,” he warns.

He means it.

I know he means it.

I take another step anyway.

And another.

Each step measured and purposeful.

I watch the war unfold across his face in real time.

Anger. Fear. Desire. Desperation.

All of it colliding, tearing him apart from the inside out.

He’s losing control.

And he hates it.

His breathing becomes uneven. His grip on the gun falters. Not enough to lower it, but enough to reveal the truth.

He doesn’t want to shoot me.

He can’t shoot me.

Then suddenly, he throws the gun.

It clatters across the opposite side of the floor, spinning uselessly into the shadows.

And then he’s on me a second later.

His fist cuts through the air, fast and sharp. I turn my head just in time, the punch grazing my cheek rather than breaking bone. The next one comes harder. I step back, my shoulder twisting, letting it skim past my ribs.

He doesn’t slow down.

He fights like a relentless, emotional, furious storm breaking against glass. Every swing is heavy and deliberate. There’s nothing sloppy about it, and I know he wants it to hurt.

I don’t strike back.

I dodge.

Shift.

Absorb the near-misses.

He shoves me, breath ragged, eyes blazing.

“Fight back!” he spits, swinging again.

I don’t.

He doesn’t need my fists.

He needs to empty himself.