Page 110 of Shattered Obsession

He sputters blood and a broken tooth, eyes blazing hatred. “She’ll remember me first.”

I see Thalia flinch. That’s it. That’s the last straw.

There’s something holy about rage when it belongs to someone who has been silenced.

Thalia’s fury isn’t ugly.

It isn’t violent for the sake of destruction.

It’s reclamation.

She isn’t trying to hurt Damian because she wants power over him; she wants power back over herself.

And I swear to every god listening that I will never let anyone take that from her again.

I grab the back of his skull and smash it against the floor until his body goes slack beneath me. His breath still rattles in his chest, but he’s out cold.

The silence that follows is deafening. Just the sound of my ragged breathing, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, and Thalia’s shaky sobs. I force myself to look away from him, to focus on her. The gun is slipping from her fingers, her hands trembling so bad she can barely hold it anymore. I crawl toward her, ignoring the blood dripping from my arm and ribs, and wrap my hand over hers, easing the weapon away.

“It’s over,” I whisper, my forehead pressing to hers. “He’s down. You’re safe now.” But as I hold her, I know deep down this isn’t over, because I saw the fire in her eyes when she pointed that gun. Thalia doesn’t just want to survive this. She wants revenge. And I’ll tie the bastard to a chair myself if that’s what she needs.

-Thalia-

Xander works meticulously at the lock of the handcuffs. My skin is raw, rubbed red and bruised in stark contrast to the metallic links tethering me to this hell.

I don’t flinch when the lock finally gives way, the metallic clatter echoing in the silence like a long-awaited promise of freedom. His hands hover over mine, gentle and careful, exuding a tenderness that makes my chest ache painfully. He’s a mess, blood splattered across his clothes, some of it his own but most a grim testament to the violence we’re escaping. Still, his touch is reverent, as if he believes I might shatter beneath his fingertips.

“You’re free, baby,” he whispers, his breath warm against my skin as he brushes damp hair away from my face, a gesture so tender it almost chokes me with emotion. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Free.

The word ricochets around inside me, unfamiliar, almost foreign. My wrists are free, but my body isn’t convinced; I keep waiting for Damian’s hand to yank me back down.

I touch my wrists, fingertips brushing the bruises. They don’t even look like part of me.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper before I can stop myself.

Xander freezes. His hand tightens around mine, firm and grounding.

“I won’t.”

I look past him, beyond the warmth in his eyes that promises safety and solace. My gaze lands heavily on Damian’s crumpled body sprawled on the floor, slumped but still breathing, a grotesque remnant of the nightmare he has woven into my life. Fury rises like lava within me, white-hot and unrelenting, the rage I’ve been burying since that horrific night resurfacing with a vengeance.

“I can’t,” I breathe out, my voice hoarse but steady as I shake my head, my focus unwavering from Damian’s form. “I’m not leaving until it’s finished.”

If I walk away now, Damian lives in my head forever.

The memory becomes permanent.

He becomes permanent.

My therapist once said trauma freezes the body in time, like part of you gets stuck there, replaying the moment forever, searching for the version where you get away.

I never got away.

Until now.

“I need to end the loop,” I whisper, barely aware I’m speaking.