8. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Roman
I spend hours walking the icy streets, my breath misting in the cold air as I make my way back to her. Every corner and shadow feels like it holds a piece of my past and my purpose. After hours of trudging through the biting cold, I hitch a ride from a trucker. "Come on in, it’s cold out, boy," he says with a smirk. I glance at the small, balding old man, who smells like cigarettes and whiskey. His gut stretches tight against a Christmas sweater. "Thank you," I mutter as I slip into the passenger side of his truck.
"Where to?" he asks, pulling away from the shoulder. I smile before replying, "Cedarvale."
The man honks the horn and turns to me with a smile. "You’re in luck; that’s where I live." I let out a sigh as my body begins to warm up. The ride is relatively quiet—some small talk here and there—but the most interesting thing is where he’s going before heading home to his wife.
"Anabel’s Tits and Grits," he says—a run-down strip club with a name that says it all. I’m not here for pleasure, though I miss the warmth and touch of a woman. I don’t care to sink my cock into any pussy that’s not Xena’s. "I paid for a private room—thirty minutes of heaven with a nice honey." He offers me a cigarette, and I take it, welcoming the familiar taste of minty smoke. "You can fuck her with me, but I gotta go first," he suggests. I stay quiet, ignoring the old man’s lecherous advances. I’m not interested in swapping fluids with him or having him see my dick. My dick is all hers.
But right now, I need a distraction—something to ease the gnawing loneliness. We finish the cigarette and walk inside. He checks his pocket, looking for something, and then I see it—the foil packet. With a smile, he slips it back in his pocket and heads to the back, but not before giving me twenty bucks and leaving me.
"Hi, sexy, you look like you could use some fun," a voice purrs from behind me. I take a seat in the worn-out leather chair and take in the blonde standing before me. She’s beautiful but clearly worn out. Doesn’t matter; all I need is her mouth.
A twenty and a smile are enough to get a quick blowjob from the blonde dancer. Her effort is mechanical, lacking any real passion or connection. As her sloppy performance drags on, I find myself lost in thoughts of Xena—memories of her perfect pussy and the feel of her body beneath mine, a sharp contrast to the emptiness of the present. The room, filled with the pulsing bass of music, is just a backdrop to my spiraling thoughts.
When she finishes, she wipes the corner of her mouth and gives me a satisfied smirk. "Come back anytime you want," she purrs, her fingers brushing against my thigh. I merely nod, zipping up my pants and leaving the dingy room without another word.
As I exit, the stage lights cut on, and the announcement for "Candy" rings out. My heart skips a beat when I see her—Xena, dancing on stage for everyone to see. Her slutty Mrs. Claus costume leaves little to the imagination and enough for me to go feral. It feels like a twisted Christmas miracle. Even in the dim lighting, her presence is unmistakable. I would recognize her anywhere.
The way she moves, the confidence radiating from her, draws all eyes in the room. My pulse quickens, a mixture of desire and possessiveness flooding through me. She’s captivating, and I can’t help but feel a surge of anger at the thought of other men watching her, their eyes lingering on what’s mine.
Tonight, she’s a star, and I’m just a shadow in the background, waiting for the perfect moment to step into the light and remind everyone exactly to whom she belongs.
I continue to watch her—a goddess on her pedestal. And i’m struck by a mix of awe and rage. Her movements are familiar and intoxicating, each sway of her body reminding me of what we had. I take a seat in the corner, using the darkness as a cloak, and despite the distance, I feel a connection. And she feels it too because my girl is focused on this very spot. It’s not like she can see me, but I hope she can feel me. My hand goes under the table and into my pants as I begin to masturbate slowly, matching the rhythm of the music and her sinuous dance—a desperate attempt to feel close to her.
But before I can finish, she is pulled off the stage, and my anger flares as the man pulls her to the back. Rage surges when I realize that her client is the same man who gave me a ride—a man I now plan to kill. I follow them to the back and hear her voice—fake, high-pitched, oozing with seduction, a performance. My hand goes up to the doorknob, and if it wasn’t for the big guy heading my way, I would burst in there and kill him for touching what’s mine. But instead, I force myself to keep walking until I find the dressing room, driven by a need to be near her.
I find her locker. It doesn’t take me long—I recognize the familiar scent of her perfume—a mixture of lavender, cedarwood, and flowers. Still the same . I rifle through her bag, finding pink lace panties. The scent of her pussy lingers and is intoxicating, a reminder of what I’ve lost. In a fit of desperation, I pull out my cock and masturbate furiously, the sweet smell of her panties filling my senses. It’s a pathetic attempt to claim a piece of her tonight. After finishing, I pocket the panties, deciding I’ll keep them for later.
I make my way back. Despite the crowd and the Christmas music, I can hear the faint sounds of moaning mixed with the club’s holiday cheer. I wait patiently, letting the anticipation build as the man emerges, looking satisfied but disheveled. Come to think about it, he will die tonight, and I don’t even know his name.
"Looks like you had a good night?" I say with a forced smile, masking my anger. He flashes a grin, his yellow teeth glowing under the lights. "Pussy sweet like candy," he groans, touching himself.
I smile coldly, imagining the ways I will make him pay. "I’ll stay here. Thanks for the ride," I say. He nods and walks away, oblivious to the danger that follows him. Once he’s outside, I follow him discreetly, even stopping at a familiar red Ford pickup parked near the club. My father’s old truck that now belongs to her. And I leave a little present.
In the alley, away from prying eyes, I make my move. The snow crunches underfoot as I approach him from behind, a silent predator. Thankfully, the man carries tools that are useful, and I help myself to them.
The deed is swift and brutal. His blood mixes with the cold snow, leaving him as a macabre Christmas gift. Using his saw, I take his hands, placing them in a box I found in the back—a reminder of the price of touching what is mine.
After I’m done with him, I return to my childhood home, where I watch her get high and fuck that asshole. Her eyes spring open, and for a moment, I think she might have seen me, but then she falls back asleep. And I leave a gift wrapped in holiday cheer outside her door before heading back to my old hunting cabin.
The small hunter cabin, hidden and known only to me and my father, becomes my refuge. As the snow continues to fall outside, I wait, knowing Xena will find my gift—a reminder of what happens when she gives away what doesn’t belong to her.
I wake up in the old, musty twin bed, the smell of mold creeping into my nose as I stretch out stiff limbs. The mattress sags beneath me, but I’ve slept in worse. My body feels heavy, aching with exhaustion, but I force myself to get up. There’s no room for weakness today .
The makeshift shower barely works—just a rusty pipe and a bucket—but I manage to heat some water on the small stove before I pour it over myself. The water isn’t hot enough, not like the scalding pressure I crave. But it’ll do for now. It won’t be long before I have everything I want. The thought makes me grin.
My stomach growls, reminding me that it’s been hours since I last ate. I’ve been running on water and adrenaline, but I’ll need something more soon. Still, hunger takes a back seat the moment I feel it—a strange, almost eerie sensation creeping up my spine. I’ve always called it my "Xena senses," that odd instinct that tells me she’s near or that she’s thinking about me, like we’re connected in some twisted way.
My cock stirs, and I swear I can almost feel her arousal. I’m hard before I know it, and my hand drops down to take care of business. It’s inconvenient timing, but I’ve been through this before and know the drill all too well.
I wrap my fingers around myself, spreading the bead of precum over the head with my thumb. The sensation shoots through me, pulling me toward the brink. I bite down on my lower lip, stroking myself harder, matching the rhythm of her arousal as if I can sense her desire. It heightens everything—my focus, my need. The little hairs on my arms stand on end as I imagine her on her knees for me, just like she used to be.
It’s the memory that kept me alive through ten years of hell. My obsession with her saved me, in a way. Kept me sharp. Kept me focused on what I needed to do once I got out.
The climax hits hard. My body seizes as I feel that sweet, visceral moment of release. My vision blurs for a second, and I let out a long breath as the aftershocks ripple through me. Grabbing a rag from the table, I wipe the mess from my hands, the cold air biting at my exposed skin. I’m done with this. Done playing with fantasies. I can have her now. The game has already begun, and soon enough, this frozen obsession will thaw into something far more real.
I get dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of worn jeans and a faded black long-sleeve shirt that once belonged to my pops. The fabric smells faintly of sweat and wood smoke, a reminder of days long gone. Using my fingers, I comb through the part of my hair that isn’t shaved off and glance into the cracked mirror.
I barely recognize the man staring back at me. The years in prison have changed me, leaving their marks on my body. Now, I’m riddled with scars, more muscle, more ink—and more twisted. If I was broken before, I’m shattered now. But there’s a certain power in that brokenness, a ferocity that comes from surviving the worst of it.
I lace up my boots and step outside, letting the cold slap me awake. The air is brutal, biting deep into my skin, but I welcome it. The cold sharpens my thoughts, makes everything feel clearer, more real. It’s been too long since I’ve felt it.
I head through the woods, the thick trees and falling snow swallowing the world in a suffocating silence. The cabin stands hidden behind the main house, shrouded deep in the forest, far away from prying eyes. The snow falls harder, turning everything into a white, voided landscape, erasing the boundaries between where the earth ends, and the sky begins. But I don’t care. None of it matters. The only thing I’m focused on is her—Xena.
It’s early morning, and I doubt she’s awake. She’s never been a morning person, my little snake. She always loved to sleep in, especially when the weather was bad. And as if the universe wanted to give me a big "fuck you, Roman," once I get close enough to see her, she’s not in bed but on her knees. But not for me.
She’s on her knees for Jimmy—good-for-nothing Jimmy. He looks the same as he always did, if not worse. The years have clearly not been kind. My fists clench when I see her mouth around him, her lips working while his hand fists her hair, pulling her head back. Drool runs down her chin, dripping onto her chest, and my cock stirs again at the sight, but my blood boils. I can feel the rage building inside me, dark and uncontrollable. I was going to skin that motherfucker and her well …She’s gonna wish I did.
I grit my teeth as Jimmy pushes in deeper, making her gag. But it’s obviously an act. There's no way that small thin dick can make anyone gag, let alone her. My little snake can take a dick down her throat and not gag. I made sure of that. My hands itch for the feel of a blade, to slit his throat and feel his warm blood coat my skin. But I don’t look away. I can’t. There’s something sickeningly mesmerizing about it—watching her take him, remembering how she used to be mine. How she used to beg for me. Now, here she is, debasing herself for this worthless piece of shit, the same way she did for Steve all those years ago. Deja vu.
But it’s worse this time. She’s broken—shattered by her own choices, her own poison. My little snake has turned into a junkie, her venom eating her from the inside out. I should be happy, should revel in the fact that her life is spiraling into the same hell mine did. But when Jimmy slips that little pill into her mouth after he's done, it stirs something deep and dark inside me. Something I can’t quite explain. How dare he destroy what’s mine to ruin.
Fuck him.
My black heart tightens as twisted empathy creeps in. Even if I break her, I’ll rebuild her. She won’t escape. She’s mine to fix—and ruin.
After Jimmy finishes, he smacks her ass and leaves, oblivious to the death stalking him. Good. He has no idea what’s coming.
I follow him through the woods, silent as the snow crunches beneath my feet. His panic sets in too late. He hears me, slips on the ice, but it’s already over. I grab the collar of his red-and-black hoodie and shove him into the trunk of his own Jeep. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I crank up the engine—the moron left his keys inside—and drive deeper into the woods, his muffled cries barely registering. No one will find him here.
Whistling softly, I pull him from the trunk. He fights, but I make quick work of him, my fist smashing his nose into a satisfying crunch. I drag him back to the old shed and tie him down. Blood drips from his broken face as he trembles, the cold sinking into his bones.
"Ro…" he groans, barely conscious. "You out of prison?"
I grin, leaning closer. "Yeah, Jimmy. And now I’m here for what’s mine."
He whimpers, trying to speak. "Please… I didn’t know… "
"Too late for that," I say, pressing the tip of my knife to his skin. "You should’ve known better."
Fluorescent lights flicker overhead as I carve into him, each cut slow, deliberate, savoring the way his screams echo through the night like a twisted carol of pain. His sobs grow weaker, his life draining away with every stroke of the blade, but I’m far from finished. Not until every ounce of suffering is wrung from him. He needs to be punished—broken, just like she is.
And when it’s over, when Jimmy’s lifeless body lies still, I’ll return to her. To what’s mine.
Because no one escapes me.