Page 60 of Shattered Obsession

And when he finally commands, “Come for me, baby,” I shatter, screaming his name, my body giving everything to him. Only then does he let go, burying himself deep, groaning as he spills into me.

The room goes quiet again, our ragged breaths filling the air.

He unties my wrists gently, kissing the raw skin where the leather pressed. My hands fall to the mattress slowly, like they’re relearning gravity. I flex my fingers, feeling the blood rush back, pins and needles prickling my skin. Xander watches every micro-movement like it matters, like I matter.

“Water?” he asks.

I nod.

He moves softly around the room, retrieving a blanket, adjusting the pillows, and handing me the water bottle with both hands like it’s fragile.

Nobody ever cared for me after.

Not like this.

“Thank you,” I whisper, voice small and raw.

“You don’t thank someone for loving you,” he answers.

But I do.

Because I’ve never been loved like this.

The absence of restraint feels strange, too light, too open. Xander watches my expression carefully, searching for a flinch, a recoil, any sign that I’m slipping back into fear. I don’t.

He presses his forehead to mine, breath uneven.

“Say something,” he whispers. I cup the back of his neck, letting my thumb brush his skin.

“I’m safe.” He exhales like those two words save him. His hand cradles my cheek, his eyes softer now, full of the man I trust with everything.

“Mine,” he says again, but this time, it’s not rage. It’s love. And I believe him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

-Thalia-

The silence that envelops us is almost suffocating, a heavy blanket draping over the moment. My wrists, once bound and confined, are now free, yet my body remains slumped against the sheets. The belt, a tool of our weighty affections, now lies discarded on the floor, but its lingering ghost leaves an indelible mark on my skin, a reminder of the journey I’ve traversed and the trust I’ve placed in this man beside me.

Xander is still and tense, refraining from making contact. It’s as if he fears that he has crossed an invisible line and taken too much from me. I can see the rise and fall of his chest, heavy with unsaid thoughts and emotions. I turn my head to face him, brushing the damp strands of hair from my forehead, a shy smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

“You didn’t hurt me,” I whisper, breaking the heavy silence that surrounds us. “I needed that.”

His eyes flicker, stormy and filled with uncertainty, revealing the hidden anguish lurking beneath his calm exterior.

“I don’t ever want to be him to you. I don’t want you to look at me and see⁠—”

I don’t let him finish. I press my fingers gently against his lips, silencing his fears.

“You’re not him. You never could be. You asked me. You checked on me. You made sure I was safe even when you were rough. That’s the difference.”

Six weeks from now, I’ll sit across from my therapist and tell her about this night.

She’ll ask what made it different.

And I’ll say he didn’t take. He asked.

He didn’t demand control. He offered it.