Page 102 of Shattered Obsession

“He ruins everything,” he hisses. “He stole you. He stole my life.”

He’s cracking.

“He knows the ending is coming. When he finds you shattered and begging, he will understand the brutal truth. He was never your savior. He was simply the audience. And I? I am the show.”

Blood pools at my palm. The cuff tears skin with every movement, warm streaks sliding down my arm. It hurts. God, it hurts. But pain means I’m still conscious. Pain means I can still fight.

I curl my fingers into fists.

If Damian wants a show, I’ll give him one.

Each soft clink of the links sparks amusement in Damian, his smile wide and smug, as if our situation is an inside joke he’s dying to share.

“Your body remembers me. It wants me.”

The implication of his words churns my stomach, rising like bile. My body doesn’t yearn for him; it remembers anguish and torment. For a blink, I’m cornered again in his apartment doorway, where the stench of stale beer and lies filled the air. His hand slammed beside my head, blocking escape.

“Love hurts,” he’d said. “Only people worth something get broken.”

And I believed him.

I believed that pain was proof of value.

But now?

Pain is proof of survival. It recalls the visceral fear that coursed through me the night everything I loved was ripped away.

He crouches down in front of me, invading my personal space, the scent of stale beer mingling with an insistent hint of cologne that struggles to mask the sour odor of his sweat. “You should thank me,” he murmurs.

“For what?” My voice cracks.

“For showing you what love looks like.”

He says it like a fact. Like an unchangeable truth.

“As long as I’m alive,” he adds, brushing his knuckles over my cheek, “you don’t get to walk away. You don’t get to choose.”

A chill tears down my spine.

Xander’s voice echoes in my head. ‘You always have a choice.’

But Damian leans in until his breath ghosts my lips.

“Not with me.”

His fingers trail deliberately against my thigh, inching upward with menacing slowness. In a sudden surge of defiance, I jerk my knee up with all the force I can muster, and the sound of the chain clattering echoes in the cramped space. My knee connects with his chest, and for a fleeting moment, I see it; his composure falters, the mask of the confident predator slipping just a fraction, revealing a glimmer of surprise at my unexpected rebellion. His jaw ticks, the first fracture in his mask.

“Oh,” I whisper, voice sharp with satisfaction. “Didn’t expect the toy to bite back?”

He snarls, an animal cornered.

Good.

I want him scared.

“Don’t touch me,” I enunciate, my voice trembling yet infused with a newfound strength that surprises me. My heart thunders in my chest, as if it’s trying to break free from its bony cage, but I maintain his gaze, unwilling to back down. “You don’t own me. You never did.”

His grin twists grotesquely, morphing into something more sinister. He seizes my jaw with a grip so tight it sends a jolt of pain radiating through my bones, forcing my face to tilt up towards his menacing gaze.