Chapter 5: Obsession Wears Leather
743 Words
I should’ve known better the night he walked into my room without knocking.
It was after midnight. The rain had been whispering against the windows all evening, and I was curled up in bed, pretending sleep would take me. But it never did, not when my mind kept circling back to him. To Dario.
He stepped in like he owned the air, like silence didn’t apply to him. His leather jacket was damp from the rain, clinging to his body like a second skin. His hair was a mess of black curls, dripping onto the floor, and his eyes—God, those eyes—were hungry.
Not for food. Not even for s*x.
For me.
And not the romantic, safe kind of wanting. Dario didn’t do that kind of love.
He didn’t show up with flowers. He didn’t remember dates or write sweet texts. His version of love didn’t come with warmth or laughter. No. What he gave was colder. Sharper. It came in the form of bruised knuckles and quiet threats whispered into the dark. It came with stains—blood, sometimes—and the kind of attention that burned.
He was obsessive.
Possessive.
A storm wearing skin.
And the scariest part?
I liked it.
There was something about the way he looked at me, like I was a secret he’d kill to keep. His touch was a warning and a promise. I should’ve run. Should’ve screamed. Instead, I lifted my eyes to him and said nothing.
“You awake?” he asked, though it wasn’t really a question. He already knew.
I nodded.
He didn’t ask if he could come closer. He just did. Each step was slow, deliberate, heavy with meaning. The air tightened around us, and I could hear the soft creak of the floor beneath his boots.
He sat at the edge of my bed, dripping water on the sheets.
“You’ve been quiet,” he murmured.
“I didn’t know what to say.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because silence makes me think,” he said. “And when I think too much, I get ideas. Bad ones.”
My heart beat a little faster, but not out of fear. It was something else. Something that made my skin heat and my spine straighten.
“You think I’m going to leave?” I asked.
He laughed, low and bitter. “You don’t get to leave.”
The words should’ve chilled me. Instead, they slid down my spine like silk. There was something terrifying about the way he said them. Like a vow. Like a threat wrapped in velvet.
I reached out and touched his jacket. It was wet and cold, and he didn’t flinch.
“You’re soaked.”
“I was watching your window,” he said, eyes locked on mine. “Didn’t like how long your light stayed on. Thought maybe someone else was here.”
“There wasn’t.”
“I know. I would've killed them if there was.”
There was no hesitation. No hint of exaggeration. He said it like he meant it. Like it was normal. Like taking a life in my name wasn’t a stretch—it was a given.
I should’ve recoiled. I didn’t.
Instead, I whispered, “Why?”
His hand came up, brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were cold, but the touch left a trail of fire.
“Because you’re mine,” he said. “And I don’t share.”
Those three words sat between us like a loaded gun. I looked into his eyes and saw nothing but raw intent. He wasn’t asking for permission. He never did.
Dario didn’t want my love.
He wanted my submission. My fear. My soul.
And maybe, deep in the parts of me I never talked about, I wanted to give it. To be ruined by him. To see how far he’d go just to keep me.
He leaned in, lips brushing against my cheek, his breath warm against my skin. “Say it,” he whispered. “Tell me you’re mine.”
I swallowed hard, throat tight. But the words came, soft and certain.
“I’m yours.”
He smiled.
It wasn’t sweet.
It wasn’t kind.
But it was Dario.
And that was all it took for me to stop pretending I was ever going to be safe again.
- Writer
