Page 70 of Shattered Obsession

But then I see her.

Shaking.

Alive.

Watching me.

And I choose her over vengeance.

My knuckles are raw, split open, smeared with his blood. Every breath burns in my chest like I swallowed fire. I can still feel the phantom weight of the gun in my hand, the cool bite of the trigger against my finger. One twitch, and it all could have been over. But her voice stopped me. Her voice, soft, desperate. ‘Xander, don’t.’ I hear it on repeat, each word wedging itself deeper under my skin.

The house is silent now, except for the sound of Thalia’s ragged sobs down the hall. I want to run to her, to pull her into my arms, to convince myself she’s safe. But I can’t; not yet. My body hums with rage, my mind still wired to kill. If I touch her like this, she’ll feel it. The violence. The darkness. The edge I almost crossed.

I stagger into the kitchen, bracing myself against the counter, head bowed. My blood drips onto the tile in quiet splatters. My hands won’t stop shaking. I almost killed a man tonight. I wanted to. And the worst part is, I don’t regret it. The only thing that holds me back is her. Not justice, not morality. Just Thalia.

I close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe.

In. Out.

In. Out.

When I finally push myself off the counter and walk toward the hallway, I know one thing for certain: if Damian ever lays a finger on her again, if he even tries, I won’t stop myself from pulling the trigger.

-Thalia-

My body trembles uncontrollably, a residual quake from the storm that just passed through. My knees throb painfully against the cold, unforgiving floor, and I can feel the searing burn in my throat where the knife grazed my skin. The silence that envelops me is suffocating, an oppressive weight heavier than any scream could ever convey, louder than the chaos of any fight.

I curl up against the wall, feeling the rough texture dig into my back, my arms wrapped tightly around my chest as if I could contain the quaking within. The wall is cold against my spine. I use it to anchor myself to reality, to this moment, to the proof that I am still here. Still breathing. Still alive. Beside me, Bella presses against my side, sensing my distress, offering a warmth that contrasts sharply with the chill in the air.

Every horrifying detail replays in my mind like a relentless loop. His arm pinning me with an overpowering force, the chilling bite of the knife at my skin, the repugnant stench of his breath invading my senses. Damian, looming over me, asserting his dominance as though I were still his possession. And then there was Xander, fierce and poised, ready to unleash his wrath upon the monster who had tormented me.

In a moment of desperation, my voice slipped out before my thoughts could catch up, begging him to not go through with it. Now, those words echo in my mind, tainted with the bitter taste of regret. Not because I wished for Xander to end Damian’s life; not because I believed that Damian deserves an ounce of mercy. No, it’s deeper than that. It’s the realization that killing him isn’t Xander’s burden to bear; it's mine.

Damian didn’t shatter Xander; he shattered me. He stole my safety, my autonomy, my very voice. He took every breath I once believed belonged solely to me. He’s the reason my nights are filled with screams, the reason I question every good thing that has ever touched my life like a fragile flower in a storm. So Xander doesn’t get the honor of ending him. That would be far too simple for Damian. Too clean of a solution. If there’s to be a reckoning, it must come from me. I want to take it back into my own hands, to reclaim my power. I want him to feel the weight of his actions, to bleed as I bled and to beg like I begged, desperate and vulnerable. I want him to choke on the very fear he instilled in me, to understand in that final, fleeting moment that there truly is no escape from the consequences of his monstrous deeds.

Xander doesn’t fully grasp this yet. He looks at me as if I’m fragile glass, worried that I’ll splinter apart if he exhales too forcefully. But beneath the surface, I’m not crumbling. I’m sharpening, becoming something more formidable. My hands still tremble when I press them against my face, and I lose myself to sobs, muffled into my palms.

And then, in the dim light at the end of the hall, I see him. Xander. He looks terrifying.

And beautiful. I don’t know what I expected.

But I didn’t expect to feel safe.

His hands are stained red, a testament to the violence he faced, his chest heaving with exertion, his eyes darkened with rage and tumult. In this instant, he appears less like the boy I love and more like a tempest, a swirling fury contained within a human form. For a brief moment, I struggle to recognize him, the storm inside him so fierce that it seems he could sweep me away.

But then his gaze locks onto mine, and clarity returns. I see him for who he really is: my anchor, my love, the only source of stability in this chaotic brew of emotions.

Blood streaks his jaw, bruises riot across his knuckles, but his eyes? God, his eyes are still gentle when they land on me. He looks like a man who crawled through fire and came out on the other side, still reaching for me.

Yet, as tears continue to stream down my face, I whisper, “Please don’t leave me.”

He doesn’t rush toward me.

He moves slow, hands visible, steps soft, like approaching a frightened animal.

“Thalia. I’m right here.”

When his fingers finally touch mine, it isn’t possessive.