Page 89 of Shattered Obsession

Motor oil. Cedar. Safety.

I inhale until my heartbeat slows.

-Xander-

The instant Thalia utters the words ‘package’, an icy dread pools in my gut. It fractures something deep within me, sparking an urgent inferno. My stomach turns to ice while my blood ignites. I can almost hear the thunder of my pulse ringing in my ears as I mentally replay her words. I can’t allow her to feel my fear, threatening to spill over like molten lava, but the truth is, I’m terrified. Not of Damian—he’s already dead in my mind—but of what that bastard’s presence does to her.

I want to tear through the city with my bare hands.

Beneath the anger, beneath the violence simmering in my veins, there’s fear.

Pure.

Unfiltered.

Terror.

Not of him. But of losing her.

Every second feels like a haunting reminder of my failure. He knows she’s alone. He knows I don’t live there. He’s playing with her, toying with fear, enjoying the sick game of watching me rush to her aid. It's a battle for control, and I can’t stand the thought of her being trapped in this nightmare.

When I shove through the door, my breath catches at the sight of her curled on the couch, trembling like a leaf in a storm. The image nearly breaks me; she’s enduring pain that she doesn’t deserve, not again. I notice the lighter on the counter, shiny and unassuming, yet it harbors the weight of memories that threaten to crush us both. I bury my face in her hair, inhaling deeply, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fear and rage that seeps into my bones. She did exactly what she should have and called me, trusted me, and while I should feel proud, all I experience is a deep-seated fury.

“Good girl,” I whisper, my hands instinctively tightening around her back, as if I could shield her from the world. “You told me right away. That’s all I need from you.”

I kiss her forehead gently, but my eyes are laser-focused on the lighter, which suddenly feels like a loaded gun, a silent trigger waiting for a moment to discharge.

“He’s not done,” I tell her, my voice low and steady. “This is him reminding us that he’s still out there. But it’s also his mistake. Because if he comes near you again, Thalia, I swear on my life, he won’t walk away.”

Her arms tighten around me, and for a fleeting moment, I feel her breathe a little easier. But within, I’m wrestling with a tumult of fury and a burning desire for retribution. Not until I have his blood on my hands will I finally feel peace. There’s a fine line between protector and monster.

I don’t know which side I’m on anymore. But if becoming a monster is what it takes to keep her safe, then I will become the darkest thing in her world, as long as I am never a threat to her.

Only for her.

-Damian-

The lighter is gone now, absent from its usual place. It lies on her doorstep like a sinister calling card, a tangible reminder of my presence. I can almost envision her hands trembling as she bends down to pick it up, fingers brushing over the cool metal. I imagine the way her heart would drop in her chest when the realization of what it signifies washes over her. The thought ignites a spark of delight within me, a twisted thrill at the chaos I’ve left in my wake.

She’s probably sprinting to him right now, her boyfriend, the mechanic, the so-called hero who believes he can shield her from what’s to come. Let him rush in, let him sweat and fume, insisting he’ll protect her. In the end, she’s still mine. She’ll never know when I’ll materialize again, lurking in the shadows, watching her from afar. She’ll never be able to tell if it’s my car she spots out of the corner of her eye, my footsteps echoing behind her in an empty parking lot, or my voice whispering her name in the dark. That’s where the excitement lies, in the anticipation, the uncertainty. And when the moment is ripe, she’ll remember what it feels like to be utterly helpless beneath me. Because no matter how hard she tries to escape, she will always be that way.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

-Thalia-

Xander moves around my apartment as if he belongs here, as though this is just any other day in our shared lives. I stand here for a moment, just listening to him move about the kitchen. Drawers opening. The click of the fridge. The quiet scrape of the spoon against the mug. It’s domestic, soft edges instead of sharp ones, and yet, there’s a tremor underneath it.

Because beneath all of this… I am waiting for the next hit of fear.

Trauma rewires you. Teaches you that silence means danger. Teaches you to look for exits even when you’re safe. And now, even coffee feels like a countdown.

Bella noses at my leg, grounding me, and I sink into a chair, pressing my palms flat against the cool surface of the table. My therapist once told me the body remembers danger even when the mind insists we’re safe. That’s trauma. A leftover survival instinct, buried like shrapnel beneath skin and memory.

My body remembers Damian. The way I used to flinch before I consciously knew why. The way every sound became a warning.

I used to think healing meant erasing the past.

Turns out, healing is learning how to live even when the past still echoes.