Page 105 of Shattered Obsession

Out for six.

Focus.

I’m not powerless.

I’m not trapped forever.

Xander is coming.

I’m not dying here.

“You really think he’s coming for you?” Damian asks.

The casual amusement in his voice makes bile climb my throat.

“He will,” I say.

He smiles. “Maybe. But if he walks through that door—” He taps his knife against the chain. “—I will make him watch.”

My vision goes white-hot.

“You won’t touch him.”

Damian laughs under his breath. “Oh, sweetheart. I already have.”

He rises slowly, savoring the theatrics, an audience of one. Up close, I can see the damage etched into his knuckles, old blood intertwined with fresh cracks, remnants of battles fought. His eyes, small and bright yet void of humanity, lock onto mine as he grins, relishing the twisted reunion.

-Xander-

I count the steps with deliberate pressure beneath my soles. Six, then eight, and onward to twelve. At the bottom, a dim sliver of light pools, a weak glare emanating from a single, flickering bulb. The muffled voices grow clearer here; his voice permeates the air like a malignant mold creeping across every surface, invasive and unnatural.

“You’ll remember,” he purrs, and I can almost taste the malice in the atmosphere. I close my eyes for a moment, summoning every ounce of focus, and pull the knife free from its sheath. The handle fits comfortably in my palm, as if it has always belonged there.

Once I breach the boundary of light, the world snaps into harsh focus. My gaze freezes on the scene unfolding before me—concrete walls weeping moisture, a central support beam casting foreboding shadows, and a chain looped around it, descending to cuffs that bite mercilessly into delicate wrists I know all too well.

Thalia’s hands are cuffed, her head bowed with hair obscuring her face. Blood stains her sleeve, a dark and glossy reminder of the pain she endures.

A surge of white-hot fury floods my vision, then fades back to clarity. He stands a mere three strides away, his back half-turned, crouched with a nonchalant swagger that makes my skin crawl, a knife poised casually on his thigh, as if he’s struck a pose for a macabre photograph. His beard is thicker, his shoulders broader, inflated with the kind of bravado born from a life fueled by cheap beer and reckless arrogance. He caresses the blade with his thumb, a sickening grin creeping across his face as if he relishes the unfolding drama.

I could easily end him in two quick steps. I imagine sinking this knife deep, where his spine meets his skull, delivering a merciful death. But then I notice the gun nestled at the small of his back, its handle glimmering in the bulb’s weak light. If I lunge, he could pivot, bringing that barrel to bear on Thalia before I can find his throat. So, I inhale deeply, steadying myself, mapping the room with precision. I calculate every variable. Distance. The angle of attack. The give of my boots on the concrete. The reach of his arm if he spins.

I mark every exit.

Every shadow.

Every potential weapon.

I don’t need to win a fight.

I need to win this moment.

And I will.

In a voice low and steady, I speak as though addressing a coiled snake ready to strike.

“Damian.”

He doesn’t flinch; instead, he freezes.