Obsessed

Chapter 57

Weeks had passed since the night at the lake.

Since the ice cracked. Since the gun went off. Since blood mixed with freezing water and silence fell over the world like a winter shroud.

Mark and Ronnie had healed—mostly.

The physical wounds were fading. The bruises turned yellow, then disappeared. The cuts scabbed and scarred. The stitches were removed. Mark’s ribs still twinged when he twisted too fast, and Ronnie still woke up some nights gasping, disoriented, drenched in cold sweat.

But the chaos had slowed.

The holidays passed in a blur of quiet evenings, hot cocoa, and puzzles with Theo. The city had begun to thaw under the weak February sun, snow melting into dirty puddles at the curb.

Mark had started cooking again.

Ronnie had taken back her old routine—morning runs, folded laundry in neat stacks, her planner marked with pastel pens and highlighted by priority. Theo had returned to school, never knowing that monsters had nearly taken his sister from him.

The world hadn’t stopped for them.

It never did.

Still, something about this morning felt… too normal.

They arrived at the precinct just after eight, Mark holding the door open as Ronnie stepped inside. She looked up at him, smiling gently when the cold wind chased her hair around her shoulders.

He leaned down and kissed her temple. “See you in a bit, doc.”

Ronnie arched a brow. “Going to Reynolds?”

Mark groaned. “Unfortunately.”

She smirked and headed toward her office with her coffee in hand while Mark took a detour to the commissioner’s side of the building. The hall smelled like floor cleaner and stale coffee. As always, Reynolds' assistant—a woman who never aged and had the patience of a saint—barely looked up before waving him in.

Reynolds stood behind his desk, coffee cup in one hand, the other tucked in his pocket. His expression was unreadable.

Mark stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

“Reynolds.”

“Marshalls.” The commissioner nodded, motioning to the chair. “Sit.”

Mark hesitated. “If this is about the incident report from the Murphy case, I—”

“It’s not.”

Mark sat anyway, brow furrowed.

Reynolds placed his cup down and leaned against the desk. “You’ve been back for a few weeks now. I’ve given you space, and I’ve kept you on low-risk detail until your medical clearance came through.”

“I’m cleared now.”

“I know,” Reynolds said. “Which is why I’m assigning you a new partner.”

Mark blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t need a partner.”

“You do.”

Mark leaned forward. “With all due respect—”

“I’m not asking.” Reynolds’ voice was firm. “I know he’s not Jackson. No one will ever replace him. But you can’t keep going out there solo. You and I both know how that ends.”

Mark looked away, jaw tightening. The silence dragged for a beat.

Reynolds reached for a folder on the desk and opened it, sliding it forward. “His name’s Kyle Peterson. Twenty-five. Top of his class at the Academy. Marine vet. Served two tours, honorable discharge. Specializes in tactical and urban navigation.”

Mark scanned the photo clipped inside the file. Kyle was tall, clean-cut, with buzzed dark hair and sharp brown eyes. He had that fresh energy about him—young, maybe a little too eager.

“He’s too green.”

Reynolds shrugged. “We all were once. Kid's got discipline. He’s smart, strategic. He reads reports like novels and memorized the case files from the last five years before I even asked him to. He’s not here to fill Jackson’s shoes. He’s here to be your partner.”

Mark exhaled hard through his nose, pushing the file back. “Why me?”

Reynolds gave him a look. “Because I trust you. And because you’re the best we’ve got, even if you are a stubborn bastard.”

Mark snorted despite himself.

Reynolds poured more coffee into his mug, then gestured toward the door. “He’s waiting for you in the conference room. Give him a chance, Mark. That’s all I’m asking.”

Mark stood reluctantly and grabbed the file. “He better not call me sir.”

“He won’t.” The commissioner smirked. “He’s cocky.”

“Fantastic.”

Mark muttered something under his breath as he left the office and walked down the hall. It felt wrong—walking toward a new partner. The ache in his chest tightened as his mind flickered, uninvited, to Jackson’s laugh. His sarcastic one-liners. The way he’d annoy Mark just to get him to lighten up.

Don’t go there.

He shoved it down and pushed open the door to the conference room.

Kyle Peterson stood when he entered.

“Detective Marshall.” His voice was steady, confident—but not arrogant. “It’s an honor.”

Mark gave him a slow once-over. Military stance. Shoulders square. Alert eyes. A tactical vest folded neatly over the back of the chair behind him. No signs of sloppiness. No nervous twitching. He has thick, dark brown eyebrows that are straight and well-defined.

His eyes were a warm brown color. His nose straight with a subtle definition. His lips full, slightly rosy. His jawline strong and angular, contributing to a defined facial structure. His complexion light to medium with warm undertones. His dark brown hair styled in a somewhat tousled manner.

He wore a white dress shirt with a tie and slacks.

“You know how to shoot?”

Kyle cracked a smile. “Expert marksman. M4, M9, and the Glock. Qualified at 100% last quarter.”

“Ever had to shoot under pressure?”

“Twice. Once in-country. Once stateside in a hostage recovery.”

Mark nodded slowly. “Alright then.”

Kyle tilted his head. “Was that an ‘alright you’ll train me’ or ‘alright you’ll tolerate me’?”

Mark’s mouth twitched. “We’ll see.”

Kyle grinned wider. “Fair enough.”

Mark gestured for him to follow. “Come on. Let’s see what kind of mess we’ve got today.”

Meanwhile, Ronnie sat in her office with a cup of tea and a file open in front of her, but her mind wasn’t really on the paperwork. She couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in her chest—the shift in the air this morning. She’d noticed it in Mark. The way his kiss lingered too long. The way his shoulders looked tight.

She knew something was changing.

And it was.

She just didn’t know yet how much.

Kyle followed Mark through the precinct’s familiar maze of desks and officers, past the whiteboards scribbled with half-solved cases and bulletin boards littered with photos, strings, and suspects. The bullpen buzzed like a tired beehive—phones ringing, keys clacking, people talking just under shouting level.

Mark barely heard any of it.

His steps slowed as he reached the desks—their desks.

His and Jackson’s.

The twin chairs across from each other, one still with that faded Mets cap hanging from the corner of the monitor. Mark hadn’t moved it. Couldn’t. Every time he got close, it felt like he was disturbing a ghost.

The memories came fast.

Jackson tossing a stress ball at his head mid-interview. Their coffee mugs lined up, his black and bitter, Jackson’s drowned in creamer. The time Jackson carved “Marshall is a grump” on the underside of the drawer.

Mark swallowed hard and pushed the wave back down.

He cleared his throat. “This one’s yours.”

Kyle nodded and dropped his bag beside the chair before taking a seat. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”

Mark didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Just then, a door swung open and Ronnie stepped out, distracted by the file she was flipping through.

Kyle’s attention immediately shifted.

Her heels clicked in a steady rhythm against the floor, each step purposeful. She wore a pale lavender blouse, tucked neatly into a high-waisted charcoal pencil skirt that hugged her curves, the hem stopping mid-thigh. Her hair was down in soft waves, bouncing lightly with every movement. Her eyes flicked up briefly, meeting Mark’s for a second before turning back to her file.

Kyle let out a low fox whistle before he even realized it slipped.

Mark’s head turned sharply, his jaw instantly tightening.

Kyle grinned. “Who is she?”

Mark stood straighter, his tone flat but carefully composed. “Veronica Summers. The precinct’s therapist and criminal profiler.”

Kyle blinked, straightening in his chair like a soldier called to attention. “That’s the profiler? No offense, she looks like she walked out of a GQ fantasy.”

“She’s brilliant,” Mark added pointedly, ignoring the irritation crawling under his skin. “Don’t underestimate her.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Kyle muttered, still watching her until Mark moved, breaking his line of sight.

Mark headed to the printer station on the far side of the room, needing the few seconds to breathe and collect himself. He’d seen the look in Kyle’s eyes before—too many times in other men. And he couldn’t entirely blame the guy. Ronnie was beautiful. Striking, really. She turned heads even when she wasn’t trying.

But she wasn’t just any woman. She was his.

He heard a quiet shuffle behind him—one of the younger officers, Darren, leaning toward Kyle’s desk.

“Hey,” the officer whispered, barely glancing toward the printer where Mark stood. “Just a heads-up—don’t even think about it. She’s with Mark.”

Kyle looked up from the desk, brows rising. “Seriously?”

Darren nodded, lowering his voice further. “Dead serious. He doesn’t say much, but the whole department knows. You hit on her, you’re going to need dental work.”

Kyle leaned back in his chair, considering that for a moment, lips twitching. “Noted.”

Mark returned with the file in hand just as Ronnie passed by, brushing her knuckles against his arm in greeting. A quiet, familiar touch.

He glanced at her.

She didn’t need to say anything. She never did.

He gave her a small nod, and she offered a soft smile before continuing down the hallway toward one of the interview rooms.

Kyle watched the exchange with thinly veiled curiosity.

Mark dropped the file on the desk. “You ready to get to work?”

“Yeah,” Kyle replied, sitting straighter. “Lead the way, boss.”

Mark grabbed his coffee and sat down at his desk, flipping open the file. “And don’t call me that.”

Kyle smirked. “Right. Partner.”

Mark didn’t look up. “We’ll see.”