Page 85 of Shattered Obsession

When Thalia finally falls asleep, curled on the couch wrapped in my sweatshirt, I step into the hallway and call Isla.

The second she answers, she’s already demanding. “What happened?”

I explain.

Every word tastes like failure.

There’s a long silence on her end before she says softly, “Love her, Xander. Just… love her carefully.”

“I will,” I vow. “I just don’t know how to be gentle and still protect her.”

“You’ll learn,” she replies. “Because you want to.”

I will prove to Thalia that she is safe in my embrace. That my rage is something I can manage, not something she must endure in silence. I would lay waste to the world before allowing even the tiniest spark to approach her. Damien might believe he’s breaking her spirit, convincing himself he owns a piece of her mind with his twisted games and taunts, but tonight has revealed a harsh truth to me. My purpose extends beyond mere destruction of that bastard. I must ensure I never become a shadow she fears to escape. Even if it entails swallowing the raging fire that roars within me. Even if it requires bleeding for her peace of mind. Especially if it means that.

Journal Entry

-Thalia-

I never imagined I would falter in his presence. Not Xander. Not the man who’s cradled me through dark nightmares, who has kissed my scars with reverence, treating them as if they were the most sacred of relics. Yet tonight, when his voice turned sharp, slicing through the air with a raw edge, and when his eyes blazed with an intensity I had never seen directed at me, I felt myself retreat. I despised that instinct. I loathed how it dredged up memories of him—Damien. The oppressive weight of his hand against my throat, the way he demanded silence with nothing more than a sinister glare. I know Xander is not him; I feel it deep within my bones. But my body, burdened by the remnants of past trauma, does not always heed rational thought. It reacts; it remembers. Healing is a tumultuous journey; trauma is cruel, remembering love and pain without warning, dragging you back to darker times.

The crucial difference lies in Xander’s response. He sensed my fear. He witnessed it unfolding and crumbled apart because of it, unable to bridge the gap between us with more fury. Rather, he drew me close, wrapping me in his strong arms and whispering apologies until the tremors in my chest subsided, until air filled my lungs once more, steady and calm. I find myself torn, uncertain whether this ability to feel safety when he’s near renders me weaker or imbues me with newfound strength. This duality of craving solace while fiercely demanding my independence sparks an internal conflict. Perhaps both can coexist; perhaps true strength lies not in a lack of fear but in the courage to acknowledge our vulnerabilities and to persist in demanding more from ourselves and from one another.

I am demanding more now, more than mere survival. More from myself. More from him. I refuse to be fragile, to shatter like glass at the slightest shift in my world. Maybe that means we’ll clash occasionally. Maybe it means he’ll raise his voice, and I’ll respond in kind. Maybe it means I’ll witness fear flicker in his eyes when he realizes he’s crossed a line, but that fear will be rooted in his concern for me, not in fear of me.

Sometimes healing feels like trying to climb out of a well with wet hands.

No matter how hard I claw, I slide back down.

But then there are moments—tiny, bright moments—where Xander looks at me like I’m made of something holy. Not fragile. Not damaged.

Just… worthy.

It feels strange to be seen that way.

To be wanted without being consumed.

Damien has stolen far too much from me—my peace, my sense of safety, my trust—but I refuse to allow him to strip me of this. Not the way I love and not the way I rage. I am not his victim any longer, neither now nor ever again.

-Thalia-

The abrupt clatter of the coffee mug against the countertop sends a rush of adrenaline through me, causing my entire body to seize momentarily. A sharp jolt of fear floods my senses before I can even comprehend it. My heart races, chest constricting and throat parched, as my eyes dart anxiously toward Xander, half-expecting a storm that I know won’t come.

The remnants of his raised voice from the previous night hang heavily in the air, echoing in my mind. I remember how the walls seemed to tremble with his fury, not directed at me but because of me. It fills me with an uncomfortable hatred, an aversion to the way my body betrays me. Even now, as he pours coffee with brisk movements and breathes heavily, I can’t shake off the instinct to flinch. I shouldn’t feel this way. This is Xander, the very man who’s been my anchor through every nightmare since that fateful night. But last night unveiled a painful truth. Even his love, deep and profound, can wield a sharp edge.

I wrap my arms protectively around myself, attempting to fold inward and meld into the kitchen chair, yearning for my chest to loosen and allow me to breathe easily once more.

My brain doesn’t ask permission before it runs. It just sprints headfirst into the worst memories I own.

My vision narrows, tunneling, and suddenly I’m not in Xander’s kitchen anymore; I’m back on that couch. That smell. That pressure. That voice telling me to be good.

My throat closes, breath stuttering in and out, too fast to be useful.

I press my nails into my palms until I feel the bite of pain.

I attempt my grounding exercises set by my therapist. Sight—the steam curling from Xander’s mug.

Touch—the cold edge of the chair beneath my thighs.