"What you've discovered is that I want you more thoroughly than anyone has ever wanted you before," he says, his voice dropping to that soft register that somehow conveys more threat than a shout. "That I've studied you, learned you, prepared for you in ways that make you uncomfortable because no one has ever focused on you with such intensity."
"It's not normal," I repeat, backing away until I hit his desk.
"It's not common," he corrects, following me. "But then, neither am I." He places his hands on the desk on either side of me, caging me with his body without actually touching me. "You're afraid because you've glimpsed the depth of my interest, and it doesn't fit into your neat categories of acceptable behavior. You're afraid because it makes you question your own response to me."
He's right, and we both know it. What terrifies me isn't just the evidence of his obsession—it's how much a part of me thrills to it. How darkly flattering it is to be wanted so completely, studied so thoroughly, pursued so relentlessly.
"I need to process this," I insist, trying to duck under his arm. "Just give me an hour, Roman."
His hand catches my wrist, not painful but implacable. "No," he says again. "You don't get to retreat into your head and construct new walls between us. You don't get to reframe what we have into something safer, more conventional."
"What we have is a contract," I remind him desperately. "A business arrangement with an expiration date."
Roman's laugh is soft and utterly without humor. "Is that really what you believe? After the way your body surrenders to mine? After the way your mind engages with mine? After the way you've flourished these past days under my care and attention?"
"It doesn't matter what I believe," I say, trying another approach. "The contract has terms. Thirty days. That's what we agreed to."
"The contract is a framework, not a limitation," he says dismissively. "A starting point, not an endpoint." His grip on my wrist tightens slightly. "And right now, that contract gives me complete authority over your time and activities. Which means you don't get to 'process' in isolation."
My breath comes faster, anger mixing with a strange, unwelcome excitement at his domination. "So what happens now? You force me to pretend I didn't see evidence of your stalking?"
"No," he says, his voice softening. "Now I show you why that level of attention, that depth of focus, is something to embrace rather than fear."
Before I can respond, his mouth claims mine in a kiss that's both punishment and persuasion. It's not gentle. It's not asking. It's taking, demanding, overwhelming my objections with physical sensation that short-circuits my brain's warning signals.
I should push him away. I should insist on boundaries. Instead, I find myself responding, my body betraying my mind's caution as it always seems to do with Roman. My hands clutch at his shoulders, no longer pushing away but pulling closer.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both breathing hard. His eyes are dark with hunger, but there's something else there too—a vulnerability I've never seen before.
"You can fear the intensity of what I feel for you, Delilah," he says, his voice roughened by desire. "Or you can recognize it for the rare and valuable thing it is. But you can't make it disappear by 'processing' it into something more comfortable."
He releases me then, stepping back just enough to give me room to breathe but not enough to escape. "I've shown you who I am," he continues. "Not just the controlled exterior I present to the world but the truth beneath it. The obsession. The focus. The absolute possession." His eyes hold mine, demanding acknowledgment. "Now you have a choice. You can accept all of me, or you can leave. But there is no middle ground. No 'space' between us."
His ultimatum hangs in the air between us. The rational part of my brain screams to run, to get away from this manwhose interest in me has clearly crossed all healthy boundaries. But another part—a part I'm increasingly unable to ignore—whispers that no one has ever wanted me like this. No one has ever seen all of me, studied all of me, valued all of me enough to cross lines to possess me.
"I'm not leaving," I hear myself say, the words emerging from some place I don't fully recognize. "But this scares me, Roman. The intensity of it. The... absoluteness of it."
Something like relief flickers across his face, gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Good," he says, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face with unexpected tenderness. "It should scare you. Anything worth having comes with an element of fear."
As I lean into his touch despite everything I've just discovered, I can't help but wonder if I'm falling into something I won't be able to escape when our thirty days are up. If Roman's obsession with me is becoming my obsession with him—a mutual addiction neither of us will be able to break.
And the most frightening part is how much that possibility is beginning to appeal to me.
ten
. . .
Roman's laptopsits open on the kitchen counter, forgotten in his rush to take an urgent business call. I should ignore it. After discovering his file on me yesterday, I should know better than to go looking for more disturbing information. But the screen is still unlocked, displaying what looks like a map with a blinking dot moving along a familiar route—the path from my old apartment to the coffee shop where I worked. A path I haven't walked in days, not since I moved into Roman's penthouse.
I glance toward his home office, where his voice emanates in that controlled, commanding tone he uses for business matters. The call sounds intense—something about market projections and quarterly targets. He'll be occupied for at least twenty minutes.
With trembling fingers, I pull the laptop closer. The tracking program is sophisticated, clearly custom-designed. The interface shows multiple dots—one labeled "current" that sits motionless within the outline of Roman's penthouse. That's me, I realize with a chill. But there are other dots, historical ones, showing movements from weeks ago. All my movements. My dailycommute to work. My trips to the library. My occasional visits to the cheap Thai restaurant that was the only indulgence I could afford.
A sidebar contains dates going back three months. Without thinking, I click on a date from six weeks ago, before I ever set foot in The Obsidian, before I even knew Roman Wolfe existed.
The screen changes to show my movements that day: apartment to coffee shop, coffee shop to campus, campus to grocery store, grocery store home. A pop-up window contains notes: "Subject maintained routine schedule. Appeared fatigued during afternoon classes. Checked mailbox twice—likely expecting financial aid disbursement (confirmed later through bank records)."
My blood runs cold. This isn't just casual observation. This is systematic surveillance, detailed monitoring of my daily life without my knowledge or consent. I click on another date, then another, finding similar notes on each. Some include photographs captured from what must be security cameras or long-range lenses—me walking with my head down against the wind, me sitting alone in the campus courtyard reading, me counting change at a convenience store counter to pay for ramen noodles.
