His Dark Obsession

Chapter 5 – Lines in the Sand

Lily’s POV

THE STORM came in Ronan’s voice.

“You think I don’t see it?” His words hit me like the crack of a whip, venom slicing through the thick air of the room. “The way you look at him. The way he looks at you. Don’t lie to me, Lily.”

I froze halfway across the kitchen, my fingers tightening around the edge of the counter. My brother stood in front of the door, blocking the exit like he was the warden of my cage. His chest rose and fell with fury, tattoos shifting with each breath, the steel of his gaze pinning me down harder than chains ever could.

“I don’t know what you think you’ve seen—” I started.

“Don’t play me,” he snapped, cutting me off. “Jeremiah is mine. My brother-in-arms. My blade in the dark. And you—” His jaw locked, nostrils flaring. “You will not touch him.”

The way he said it—like I was dirty for even thinking it—ignited something ugly inside me. Heat burned up my throat, fury clashing with shame.

“You don’t own me, Ronan.”

“I do until I say otherwise,” he growled. His eyes flicked, sharp as razors, his body taut with violence. “I’m not warning you again. If you so much as breathe wrong in his direction—he pays. Not you. Him. You want his blood on your hands? Because that’s how it happens.”

The room went silent, except for the pounding in my ears. His threat sliced through me, sharp, deliberate, and I hated him for knowing exactly where to strike.

“You’re a monster,” I whispered, but my voice cracked on the word.

His mouth twisted. “I’m a brother.”

Then he shoved past me, the door slamming so hard behind him that the walls rattled. I stood there trembling, my chest heaving, my hands gripping the counter until my knuckles ached.

Off-limits. The words dug into me like claws. Jeremiah wasn’t just dangerous because of what he was—he was dangerous because Ronan had turned him into forbidden fruit. And I hated myself for wanting him all the more.

THE DAYS that followed were worse than any punishment Ronan could’ve devised. Jeremiah vanished into his role with surgical precision—present when he needed to be, but never close, never lingering. He spoke to me only when absolutely necessary, his tone clipped and professional, his eyes careful not to meet mine for more than a second.

It was like he’d built a wall in the span of a night and sealed me out completely.

The silence was a knife. His absence, even when he stood in the same room, was suffocating. I wanted him to yell, to scold, to slip like he had before when he touched my waist and left fire in its wake. But this? This nothingness?

It was unbearable.

Every glance became a battle. Every brush of air between us was a war I was losing. My body betrayed me, thrumming alive in his orbit, desperate for a scrap of attention, even if it was cruel.

By the fourth day, I broke.

I FOUND him in the garage, bent over a workbench, oil staining his bare forearms, sweat slicking his skin beneath the strip of light falling from a single bulb. His shirt clung damp to his shoulders, his knuckles bruised from a fight I hadn’t been told about. He didn’t look up when I entered.

“Go back inside.” His voice was flat. A dismissal.

I ignored him, stepping deeper into the scent of metal and leather, into his world of machines and scars. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

His jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes on the piece of steel in his hands. “I’m busy.”

“Bullshit.” My voice cracked with the weight of days unsaid. “You can’t even look at me.”

Finally, he turned.

And when his eyes locked on mine, the air shifted, sharp and electric.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” His voice was low, dangerous, the kind of sound that slid along the spine and left you trembling.

“Yes,” I shot back, though my heart raced. “I’m standing here. Talking to you. Because I’m tired of being treated like I’m some child who doesn’t know what she wants.”

His lips curled into something between a snarl and a smile. He moved before I could blink, slamming his hands down on the workbench, caging me in with his body. The wood dug into my lower back as he loomed over me, his heat suffocating, his breath ghosting across my face.

“You’re playing with fire,” he growled, his eyes burning into me. “And fire doesn’t care if it burns you alive.”

My pulse thundered. I should have stepped back. I should have shoved him away. Instead, I tilted my chin higher, defiant even as my body trembled under his shadow.

“Maybe I like fire,” I whispered.

The words hung there, reckless and raw, daring him.

His hand slammed down harder on the wood beside me, the sound sharp, the vibration running through my spine. His other hand hovered near my waist, not touching, but so close my skin ached for it.

“Don’t test me,” he warned, his voice rough, ragged. “Because if I take what you’re offering, there’s no going back. Not for me. Not for you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” I lied.

His eyes narrowed, dark and hungry. “You should be.”

And then—for one suspended second—the world shrank to nothing but the heat between us. His chest brushed mine when he leaned in, our breaths tangled, lips so close that if either of us moved, the line would shatter forever.

My body screamed to close the distance, to taste the danger, to set myself ablaze.

But the universe had other plans.

The crack of gunfire split the night.

Jeremiah’s head snapped toward the sound, every muscle in his body going taut. Shouts echoed outside, the roar of engines tearing through the compound’s gates.

He cursed under his breath, stepping back, the wall between us slamming back into place. His hand dropped, the heat with it, and he grabbed the pistol from the bench.

“Stay here,” he barked, already moving for the door.

“Like hell I will—”

“Lily!” His voice was sharp enough to cut steel. For once, I froze.

The last thing I saw before he disappeared into the chaos was the fury and something else—something molten—burning in his eyes.

And then the world outside erupted into war.