Page 57 of Shattered Obsession

Shock is a strange thing; it doesn’t arrive all at once. It seeps in. First as numbness. Then as static under the skin. Then as the realization that a moment has split your life into before and after.

Before tonight, fear was a memory.

Now it’s an echo.

Xander studies me, not with hunger or anger but confusion, like he’s trying to figure out where he fits in my storm. His hands, raw and bloodied, are steady. Mine aren’t.

I focus on the medical gauze, on the routine of caring for him.

It keeps me from unraveling.

“What’s going on in your head?” he asks.

I want to say nothing, but the truth presses against the back of my teeth.

“I keep hearing the sound,” I whisper.

“What sound?”

“Your fists…” My throat tightens. “Hitting him.”

His jaw flexes. I realize this moment is not about violence.

It’s about what we almost lost.

The sight of his wounds makes a knot form in my stomach—the cuts are jagged, skin split open, and bruises bloom like dark flowers around his knuckles.

He doesn’t flinch as I work, watching me intently. The room begins to tilt, just slightly, the edges softening like someone smeared Vaseline across reality. My brain starts detaching, searching for the exit.

I’ve been here before.

Not here with Xander.

But here in my mind.

Dissociation creeps up like fog, slow and silent. My focus narrows to absurd details. The chipped ceramic mug on the coffee table. The frayed thread on the couch cushion. The ticking of the wall clock, even though it hasn’t worked in months.

Xander shifts closer, lowering his head just enough to meet my downcast eyes.

“Thalia,” he says gently, voice low and steady. “Stay with me.”

It’s not a command.

It’s an invitation.

I match my breathing to his, inhaling when he inhales, exhaling when he does.

The fog retreats. Not fully. But enough.

“I’m here,” I whisper.

His relief is so raw I feel it in my bones.

His eyes are intense and vulnerable, as though I’m the only thing keeping him grounded in this reality. “You shouldn’t have come out,” he murmurs, his voice low and laced with a mixture of concern and guilt, a reminder of the risks I put myself through.

“And you shouldn’t have gone that far,” I respond softly but firmly, meeting his gaze. “We’re even now.” For a split second, Damian’s face flashes in my memory, that smug, unbothered expression he wore whenever he took something from me simply because he could.

The memory hits like cold water.