Page 91 of Shattered Obsession

Checked three times.

Logic whispers, ‘You’re safe.’

Fear whispers louder, ‘You were safe last time, too.’

I reach over to the coffee table and grab Xander’s hoodie, pulling it over me like armor. He once told me that his hoodie looked better on me.

I didn’t believe him then.

Now, wrapped in it, I feel untouchable.

Bella’s steady breathing offers a sense of calm, and for a fleeting moment, I can almost convince myself that the chaotic world outside has faded away, that I am safe here. But then I glance at the counter, my eyes landing on the empty space where the lighter had been before Xander carefully tucked it away in a drawer. It may have vanished from sight, but it hasn’t left my mind. Its absence presses against my ribs, an invisible weight that feels suffocating.

I pull the blanket tighter around me, my whisper barely audible as I reassure Bella. “We’re okay. We’re fine.” The comforting thump of her tail against the cushion becomes my lifeline, a small solace amid the turmoil.

Deep down, I understand that this is merely the calm before the storm, and I can’t shake the creeping dread that looms over us.

-Xander-

Work feels impossible today. I try to lose myself in routine.

Tighten the bolts. Replace the gasket. Adjust the torque.

My hands know the movements; my head doesn’t.

Every sound becomes a threat.

The slam of a toolbox. The hiss of the air compressor. The grinder’s whine.

Each one sounds like her scream replaying in different frequencies.

I rub the back of my neck, trying to shake the image.

Thalia never screams in real life. Even when she’s terrified, she goes silent, something Damian conditioned into her.

The moment I realized that, I understood how deeply he poisoned her.

That’s why the silence today terrifies me more than any scream ever could. The familiar roar of the shop surrounds me, the jarring clatter of metal hitting metal, the grease-stained rags strewn carelessly over the benches, and the thick, intoxicating smell of oil and gasoline that hangs in the air like a heavy fog. Yet despite the usual chaos, none of it manages to penetrate the relentless buzzing in my skull. I’ve rebuilt engines in various states of distress—hungover, half-asleep, even once with a broken wrist—but today is different. Today, I can hardly keep track of the socket wrench gripping my hand. Instead, all I can think of is that lighter.

It shouldn’t mean anything to me. Just a cheap, unremarkable lighter. But the way it appeared, silent, calculated, and completely anonymous, sends a chill down my spine. It’s a stark reminder that Damian isn’t gone. He’s not letting go of the grip he has on Thalia, and he wants me to know that he can step into her life at any moment, shattering the fragile walls she’s erected around herself.

I slam the wrench down harder than intended, the metal striking the concrete floor with a violent crack that echoes through the shop. Eyes turn toward me, a few of the guys raising their brows in concern, but they’ve learned by now to stay quiet. They know better than to poke the bear.

My phone lies silently on the edge of the workbench, its screen dark as if mocking me. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve checked it, anxiously waiting for the familiar buzz that would signal Thalia’s name lighting up the screen. I told her to reach out, text me, call me, do anything if she ever feels uneasy. She promised she would.

But the silence gnaws at me, a pit of dread expanding in my chest as I picture her alone in that apartment. My mind drifts to thoughts of her small frame curled up on the couch, her eyes darting nervously at the slightest sound, the way she flinched the last time I raised my voice in frustration. The idea that Damian, the man who has already broken her, could do so again makes my blood boil. And alongside that rage, there’s a darker fear, a fear that I might shatter her too, with my anger, my obsession, my inability to keep it all under control.

I drag a hand over my face, leaving greasy streaks across my skin, and let out a breath that doesn’t alleviate the tight knot in my gut. Every time I close my eyes, I can conjure an image of Damian, smirking, smug, relishing in the thought that he’s already won. He’s infiltrated our lives, tauntingly positioning himself in her mind and mine. “Not a chance,” I mutter to myself, forcing my hands to unclench, yet the tension is so intense that the grease rag I’ve been holding tears in half. I try distracting myself by working, forcing my hands to move through muscle-memory motions.

Oil, wrench, torque, simple math.

But nothing sticks.

Every noise becomes a threat. The slam of a toolbox. The passing shout of a coworker. The hiss of compressed air.

All of it fragments into one thought. Is Thalia scared right now?

I picture her curled on the couch, hands shaking, trying to pretend she’s okay so she doesn’t worry me. I hate that she’s learned to minimize her fear.