The Heir's obsession Chapter 12: POSSESSIVE

Chapter 12

JACE MARINO

The elevator doors slid open with a sharp ding, and I bolted out like the world was on fire. My chest ached from running, but all of that burned away the mont I saw him.

He was sitting on the floor by my door, knees pulled up to his chest, my jacket—the one I gave him—draped over his small fra. God. He looked like he belonged there. My heart stopped, then hamred harder than it should.

When he lifted his head and caught staring, he scrambled to his feet, fumbling at his sleeves, tugging at his clothes like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Fucking hell. I was gone.

Thirty five years old, and here I am, wrecked by one boy.

He’s adorable.

He’s beautiful.

He’s perfect.

His face is carved like soone had taken their ti with him, shaping every angle until it hurt to look.

And those eyes—blue, with a ring of black, so impossibly pure it made want to shield him from the world. To claim him. To never let go.

Fuck, fuck , I’m drowning—and I don’t want to be saved.

He shifted from foot to foot, swaying, nervous. My gaze locked with his, and I didn’t care that I’m staring too long, too openly.

"Hi, sir?" His voice is so small, like it barely made it out of his throat. He flushed crimson, and the sight of it punched the air out of . Butterflies. Goddamn butterflies. Like I was sixteen again and not supposed to feel this way.

"How are you?" he tried again, clearing his throat, words tripping over each other.

"I was thinking... uh... you haven’t texted about our tutoring session, and I haven’t seen you in class for days. I swear I wasn’t stalking you, I was just... worried."

His questions tumbled out in quick bursts, each one sharper than the last.

"Are you sick?"

"Did you take a leave from school?"

"Or are you quitting? I know you’re... rich rich."

"Did I do sothing wrong?"

"I’m sorry, I was just worried about you. Can’t you say sothing?"

His voice cracked on the last one, panic threading through it.

"Maybe I should g—"

I closed the space between us before he could finish, my hand brushing against his cheek, thumb tracing the curve of his bottom lip. Heat radiated off him, but when my skin touched his, he was cold. Too cold.

"You’re freezing," I murmured.

"Huh?" His eyes widened.

"Follow ."

I laced my fingers through his, unlocking the door with the code and tugging him inside. The jacket slipped from his shoulders, and I hung it neatly on the rack before leading him to the kitchen.

"Sit," I told him. He obeyed without question.

I set the kettle, turned up the heater, and moved through the motions like muscle mory while my chest ached with everything unsaid. A mug of steaming tea slid into his hands.

"Thank you," he whispered, taking a small sip. Color returned to his cheeks.

Then his eyes flicked up to , sharp and curious.

"So... are you going to tell ?"

I hesitated. I wasn’t sick. And I wasn’t about to lie. He was already worried enough.

"I had business to handle," I said finally.

He nodded, quiet, accepting—but not satisfied.

I dragged the chair out and sat beside him, closer than I needed to be, my knee brushing his.

He tensed when I moved closer. The mug hit the table with a soft clink as he set it down and ran his hands through his hair. His shirt lifted an inch with the motion and I saw it—a dark bruise just below the waistband at his hip.

My stomach dropped hot. I don’t think. I just said it. "I will fucking kill whoever laid a hand on you." The words ca out harder than I ant and I didn’t bother to soften them.

Julian went very still. He looked small then, like the room could swallow him. I reached without thinking, thumb brushing the edge of the red. He let out a breath—short, a sound that feathered across the back of my neck. Being that close, feeling the heat of him... it threw off worse than I expected.

"What is this?" I asked, not a question so much as a demand. My hand moved across the bruise slow, deliberate.

He stuttered, words lost. "Uhm... er—"

He tipped his head back and we bumped noses, an accidental, intimate touch. His breath hit my face. I couldn’t hold the anger coiled in my chest; it turned to sothing else, sharper and more dangerous.

His right hand ca up and landed on my chest. It was trembling. I didn’t miss it. Neither of us moved for a heartbeat.

"I will fucking kill anyone who so much as breathes wrong around you." The sentence tore out of before I could stop it.

His eyes widened. He shifted back and his hand slipped away from my shirt like a small surrender. I hated myself for the words as soon as they left my mouth; his face went thin with sothing like fear and it punched in the ribs.

He swallowed. "My best friend—Luka. We were ssing around. In the pool." He kept his gaze everywhere but mine.

I didn’t let go. I took his hands, held them like I’d anchor him to sothing solid. The apology was out of before I knew it. "I’m sorry," I said. It sounded stupid and useless and true.

He blinked, then nodded. "It’s... okay." He gave a small, almost guilty smile.

He smiled. My chest went tight in a way that had nothing to do with rage. I didn’t an to, but I leaned in and kissed his forehead, soft and sudden. It felt like the most natural stupid thing in the world and also like stepping off a cliff.

"I’m sorry," I said again, quieter.

He chuckled—tiny, surprised, warm—and squeezed my hand back. His fingers were small in mine. The squeeze was a promise or a question; I couldn’t tell which.

Damn if I know. But I didn’t pull away.