Obsessed

Chapter 43

The apartment was dark, quiet save for the hum of the heat kicking on and the soft rhythm of Ronnie’s breathing beside him.

Mark lay on his back, one arm carefully cradled against his chest while the other rested beneath his head. His eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling as moonlight leaked in through the slats of the blinds, casting striped shadows across the room. But he wasn’t focused on the shadows. Not really.

He was focused on her.

Ronnie was curled beside him, her cheek against his chest, her hand loosely resting over his stomach. Her breath tickled his skin, warm and steady, her body fitting against his like she was made for it.

Mark swallowed hard, eyes still tracing the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep. Not from pain—not anymore. The medication dulled the ache in his shoulder well enough. No, this restlessness came from something else entirely.

Her.

Veronica Summers.

This woman had somehow taken root inside his very soul, and it terrified him. He’d been with women before—casual flings, brief connections that fizzled out before they ever meant anything. He had his armor, his rules, the emotional distance he used to keep people from getting too close. But Ronnie?

She broke through all of that like it was paper.

He’d never fallen this hard. Not even close.

He turned his head slightly to look at her. Her pale blonde hair spilled across his chest like moonlight, and her mouth was slightly parted in sleep, her breath whispering over his skin. She looked so peaceful, so trusting—like she wasn’t afraid of the dark anymore.

Mark’s throat tightened. He slowly, carefully slid out from beneath her, tucking the comforter back around her form. She didn’t stir as he moved, only shifted slightly and curled toward the warmth he left behind.

Mark stood, his bare feet silent against the hardwood as he across the apartment toward the bathroom. His muscles were stiff, his shoulder a dull, ever-present throb, but he moved with the quiet stealth that never left him—not after the service. The bathroom light clicked on and he squinted at the sudden brightness. He splashed water on his face, gripping the sink’s edges tightly and breathing through the burn in his arm.

He stared at himself in the mirror for a long moment.

There was a healing bruise along his shoulder, fatigue around his eyes. But beneath all of that, he could see the same fire that had been there for weeks now—the same obsession to protect her, solve this case, end it before it took anything else from either of them.

He turned the light off and stepped back into the hall.

That’s when his phone rang.

It vibrated against the kitchen counter—harsh and loud in the stillness of the night. He grabbed it before it woke Ronnie and glanced at the screen.

Unknown number.

His brow furrowed, but he answered anyway. “Marshalls.”

“Detective Marshalls?” a male voice asked, static humming faintly in the background.

“Yeah.”

“This is Corporal Drew Simmons from the ballistics unit assigned to your case. You asked for updates on the round pulled from your shoulder.”

Mark’s heart began to thud. “Yeah. What’d you find?”

There was a pause. “It’s a .338 Lapua Magnum. Military-grade. Not civilian legal in most states, and definitely not standard-issue for local firearms.”

Mark’s jaw tensed. “You sure?”

“Positive. The round was a custom jacketed hollow point—designed for extreme penetration. High velocity. Long-range. This wasn’t random, sir. Whoever pulled the trigger knew what they were doing.”

Mark was silent, his mind racing.

“This is the kind of bullet we saw in sniper operations,” Simmons continued. “You weren’t just shot at. You were targeted. That kind of round isn’t fired unless the shooter intends to make damn sure the target doesn’t get up.”

Mark let that sink in for a second, then said, “Thanks, Corporal. Keep me posted.”

He ended the call and lowered the phone slowly, staring blankly ahead at nothing.

That bullet had been meant to kill him.

No warning shot. No intimidation tactic.

Kill. Him.

He glanced over his shoulder, toward the open bedroom area. From here, he could just barely see the shape of Ronnie curled beneath the comforter, one arm stretched across his side of the bed. Vulnerable. Soft. Unaware of the danger that had crept so close.

His stomach turned.

It wasn’t just about him. It had never been just about him. That shot... it had been a message. From someone watching. Waiting. And if that bullet hadn’t been stopped by the metal plate in his shoulder—if fate had tilted just an inch to the left—he’d be gone.

She’d be alone.

He walked slowly back toward the bedroom, his bare feet moving silently, the phone still in his hand.

Ronnie stirred slightly as he sat on the edge of the bed. Her eyes fluttered open, bleary and unfocused. “Mark?” she whispered, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Go back to sleep.”

Her hand reached for him, fingers brushing his thigh. “You okay?”

He looked at her, really looked—at the way her lashes fanned against her cheeks, at the faint furrow in her brow that hadn’t quite left even in rest.

“Yeah,” he said, though his voice was rougher now. “Just thinking.”

Ronnie blinked slowly, then sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Come back to bed.”

Mark hesitated, then nodded, letting her pull the covers back for him.

As he slid in beside her, she curled into him again without hesitation, her head on his good shoulder, her fingers lacing through his.

“Something’s wrong,” she said, half-asleep but aware enough to feel the tension radiating off of him.

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” he murmured, kissing her forehead.

She didn’t press. She trusted him. And that alone made his heart ache.

He held her close, watching the shadows dance along the ceiling again.

That round had been military grade. Precise. Intentional.

And he knew, without a shred of doubt, that whoever was behind this—

They weren’t going to stop until either he was dead...

Or they were.

The next morning brought grey skies and low-hanging clouds, the kind that felt like a warning. Snow hadn’t started yet, but the air was heavy with the threat of it—thick and cold like the calm before something terrible.

Mark tugged his hoodie over him as Ronnie locked the apartment behind them. She’d made him coffee, practically begged him to stay and rest. But she knew even before asking what his answer would be.

“I really think you should stay,” she tried one more time as they reached the truck.

Mark shot her a look as he slid into the drivers seat. “I’ll rest when we catch him. Or kill him. Whichever comes first.”

Ronnie’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue again. Not this time.

The drive to the precinct was quiet, tense. Mark’s hand rested on his thigh, fingers absently twitching. He wasn’t in pain—he was wound tight, barely holding it in. Ronnie didn’t press. She could feel it too.

As soon as they walked through the doors of the precinct, the hum of activity snapped into focus. Officers moved with clipped urgency, coffee cups in hand, papers flapping, boots squeaking against the floors. Something was in the air.

Ronnie followed Mark down the hall, ignoring the way some of the other detectives gave them double takes. News about Mark getting shot and them sleeping together had spread fast. It was clear people had questions. But no one was stupid enough to interrupt the look on his face.

They stepped into Reynolds’ office without knocking. The captain looked up from behind his desk, blinking at the sight of Mark.

“Jesus, Marshalls,” Reynolds said. “I expected you to be out for at least another day.”

“I heal fast,” Mark muttered. “We need to talk about the bullet.”

Reynolds gestured for them to sit. “I saw the report this morning. High-caliber, .338 Lapua Magnum. Military grade.”

“Yeah,” Mark said. “That round wasn’t for show. It was meant to tear through body armor—and me.”

Reynolds leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “You think Elise was the shooter?”

Mark shook his head. “No. You don’t just pick up a rifle like that and know what you’re doing. That shot came from someone experienced. Educated. Trained. You don’t miss with a weapon like that unless you mean to. And whoever fired it didn’t miss—they aimed for a kill shot.”

He paused, his jaw tight. “That’s the rifle I used in the service. I know exactly what kind of person pulls that trigger.”

Reynolds’ expression darkened. “So we’re not just dealing with a psychopath—we’re dealing with one who knows what they’re doing.”

Before anyone could respond, the office door slammed open and Jackson burst in, eyes wide and breathless.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” he said, practically tripping over his words. “He turned himself in.”

Mark stood instantly. “Who?”

Jackson grinned, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it himself. “Elise. He’s here. In interrogation.”

Ronnie stiffened. “What?”

“I swear to God,” Jackson said. “He walked in through the front door, asked for Veronica by name, and then told us he’d wait in a room. Just sat down. Didn’t even ask for a lawyer.”

Mark exchanged a glance with Ronnie, then with Reynolds. “What the hell is he doing?”

Ronnie’s face was unreadable. Her lips pressed into a firm line as her fingers curled tightly around her bag strap.

“Show us,” she said.

Jackson led them down the corridor to the observation room. The overhead light in the adjacent interrogation room was already on, casting a sterile glow over the glass.

And there he was.

Elise Smith.

He sat calmly at the table, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankle. He wasn’t restrained. He hadn’t been aggressive. He looked… relaxed. Like he’d come for coffee, not for questioning. He wore a pressed button-down shirt and clean jeans, as though he wanted to make a good impression.

He smiled once, briefly, at the one-way mirror. As if he knew they were watching.

Ronnie’s stomach twisted.

“Let me go in,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

Reynolds blinked. “Are you sure?”

Mark turned sharply. “Ronnie—”

“I’m going,” she said, eyes never leaving the man in the chair. “He wants me. That’s why he came. We won’t get anything out of him unless I go.”

Mark’s fist clenched. “I’m coming in with you.”

She finally looked at him. “No. He won’t talk if you’re there. Not honestly.”

“Ronnie—”

“I need to do this, Mark,” she said, her voice gentler now. “I won’t let him get in my head. I promise.”

Mark stared at her, his expression rigid. Then, reluctantly, he nodded.

She walked toward the door, her heels silent on the tile. Before she stepped through, she paused and looked back once.

Their eyes met through the glass. And even though the room separated them, Mark felt the weight of her resolve like it had taken physical form.

She was ready.

And Elise… was waiting.