Obsessed

Chapter 40

The rhythmic beep... beep... beep of a heart monitor echoed through the sterile hospital room, a sound that grounded Mark as consciousness slowly crept back into his body.

His eyelids were heavy, glued together with sleep and pain. He blinked against the harsh, fluorescent light until the blurry shapes around him began to solidify into a white ceiling, pale walls, and the uncomfortable truth of a hospital bed.

His right shoulder ached like hell. A slow, burning throb pulsed through his upper chest and radiated down his arm. He groaned softly, the sound catching in his throat.

Mark moved to sit up, but something tugged gently on his left hand.

He turned his head—and the tightness in his chest had nothing to do with the bullet wound.

Ronnie was there.

She was seated in a stiff plastic chair pulled close to the bedside, her head resting on the edge of the mattress, her hand tangled with his. Her other hand clutched a corner of the blanket, like if she let go, he’d vanish again. Her hair was pulled back haphazardly, strands falling loose around her face. Her eyes—though closed—were red, swollen, and exhausted from crying.

Mark felt something unsteady twist in his chest. Guilt. Gratitude. Love.

He gently slipped his hand from hers and reached out, brushing his fingers along the curve of her cheek. Her skin was warm, soft. She stirred, blinking sleepily, and then suddenly shot upright when she saw him awake.

“Mark,” she whispered, the word broken and breathless.

Before he could say anything, she leaned over and wrapped her arms around him—carefully avoiding his shoulder—pressing her cheek to his good one. He felt her inhale shakily, her fingers curling into the sheets.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered against his jaw.

He let his uninjured arm wrap around her waist, holding her to him. “You didn’t,” he murmured. “You couldn’t.”

The door creaked open behind them.

“Well, damn,” Jackson’s familiar voice cut through, teasing but relieved. “About time Sleeping Beauty woke up.”

Ronnie pulled back gently, wiping her eyes, letting Mark have a moment with his partner. She moved aside but stayed close, sitting back in the chair and holding Mark’s hand again.

Jackson stepped in, arms crossed, a crooked smile tugging at his lips—but his eyes gave away the worry that had lingered too long. “How you feelin’, man?”

Mark grimaced as he shifted. “Like I got shot in the chest.”

“Crazy, right?” Jackson said, eyebrows raised. “It’s almost like you got shot in the chest in broad daylight, in the middle of a police precinct.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. The memories came back fast and disjointed. The photos. The red dot. The searing pain. Ronnie’s face above him, panicked and pleading.

“Sniper?” he asked.

Jackson nodded. “From the building across the street. Long-range rifle. No one saw the bastard. One clean shot, then vanished. We’re reviewing traffic cams and surveillance, but he planned it well.”

Mark exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.

Jackson ran a hand through his hair. “And Reynolds... well. He’s not exactly thrilled.”

Before Mark could ask what that meant, the door opened again.

Commissioner Reynolds stepped inside, suit crisp, expression unreadable. His eyes scanned the room, landing on Mark, then flicking to Ronnie.

“Can we have a moment alone?” Reynolds said, his tone polite but firm.

Ronnie looked uncertain. Mark gave her a small nod.

Jackson patted Mark’s foot gently through the blanket. “I’ll be right outside.”

Ronnie gave his hand one last squeeze before standing. She hesitated—her fingers reluctant to let go—but then followed Jackson out of the room.

The moment the door closed, Reynolds exhaled a long, slow breath. The kind a man took when he was trying very hard not to yell.

He turned to face Mark.

“I told you,” Reynolds said, voice low and steely. “I told you to talk to the therapist. Not f**k her.”

Mark didn’t flinch at Reynolds’ words. He held the commissioner’s gaze, steady and unashamed, though his jaw ticked slightly.

“She’s not just the therapist,” Mark said calmly. “You know that.”

Reynolds let out a dry laugh, full of bitterness. “No. She’s the key to this entire case. She’s the obsession of a serial killer. She’s the one woman he won’t kill—but the one he’s willing to kill everyone else for.” He pointed a finger toward the door. “And now she’s sleeping in your bed, and there are photos to prove it. Do you realize how bad that looks?”

Mark’s eyes darkened. “Those photos were taken through my window. The bastard has been watching us. That’s the part that matters, not—”

“What matters,” Reynolds cut in, “is that I have reporters at my damn door asking if one of my lead detectives is sleeping with a case witness. That I’ve got a shooter on a rooftop who managed to fire a shot through a precinct window and almost took you out. And that if this gets out, you will be pulled off this case, she will be discredited, and this whole thing falls apart.”

The room went silent for a long, tense beat.

Mark’s voice dropped, low and hard. “Then you’d better make damn sure it doesn’t get out.”

Reynolds narrowed his eyes. “You think I don’t want to protect her? I do. But I need to protect the case first. You crossed a line.”

“I’d do it again,” Mark said without hesitation.

That gave Reynolds pause.

He studied Mark for a moment, then sighed and dragged a hand down his face. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease, but the fire behind his words cooled slightly.

“I’m not here to destroy you, Mark. I’m here to solve this. And right now, everything we have is circling around Veronica Summers. William is out there, hunting her—maybe taunting her. And now you’re in his sights.”

Mark’s gaze hardened. “Good.”

Reynolds shook his head. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not.” Mark’s eyes gleamed with something darker. “He wants me dead because I’m between him and Ronnie. Let him come. I’ll be ready.”

Reynolds crossed his arms. “We’ve got patrols stationed around your apartment and her house. But I want her off the street. Either she stays in protective custody or she stays locked down. No lectures. No visits. No slipping away to help with interviews. We can’t afford to lose her.”

Mark nodded slowly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

There was a knock on the door, and then it cracked open. Ronnie peeked in, clearly having waited for some kind of signal. Her expression was tight, worried. Reynolds glanced at her, then back at Mark.

“I mean it,” Reynolds said, softer this time. “Whatever this is between you two... just be smart.”

Mark gave a subtle nod.

Reynolds turned and walked out of the room, brushing past Ronnie. She hesitated before stepping back inside and closing the door behind her.

Mark’s expression softened the moment their eyes met.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, approaching his bed again.

“Hurts like hell,” he muttered. “But seeing you helps.”

She managed a smile, though it trembled slightly. “You scared me. One second you were smirking at Jackson, and the next you were on the ground bleeding.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I thought—”

“I know.” Mark reached for her hand again. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She sat beside him again, clutching his hand tightly.

“Did they find anything? Any leads?”

Ronnie shook his head. “Not yet. Sniper vanished. Photos were mailed—no prints, no DNA, no envelope. He’s careful. He’s escalating.” Ronnie looked down at their hands, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s my fault.”

“Don’t.” His voice was gentle but firm. “This is on him. Not you.”

“But I was the one he fixated on. I’m the reason he’s doing this.”

Mark exhaled. “You didn’t choose that. He made that decision years ago. You’re not responsible for his sickness.”

Ronnie’s lips parted, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her forehead gently against his.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered.

“You won’t,” he said. “He’d have to kill me to keep me from you.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

They sat in silence for a long while, his hand cradled in hers, the beeping monitor the only sound between them. But the weight of everything hung in the room—thick, suffocating. The sniper. The photos. The growing danger. William was watching them. And now he was aiming for more than just psychological warfare.

He was ready to kill.

And Mark knew—it was only a matter of time before the final confrontation came.