Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
-Thalia-
Xander has been industriously working since the crack of dawn.
His tools are scattered across the floor and the lights half-installed, each clatter and whirr a reminder of his dedication.
I should be grateful for his efforts—I truly am—but beneath my gratitude, an insidious fear whispers.
What if I’m too broken? I silently observe his movements.
Each dull thrum of the drill feels like a gunshot in my head, harsh, final, and terrifying.
Xander sets the drill down, crouching so our eyes meet.
“Talk to me, baby. What’s going on in your head?”
The question almost breaks me completely. My throat tightens, words clogging like stones.
“I feel like I broke something, Xander. Like you see me differently now.” I saw the turmoil etched across his face when I confessed.
He shakes his head sharply before cupping my hands in his rough, calloused ones, allowing warmth to seep into my cold, trembling fingers.
“No. I look at you and see the strongest damn woman I’ve ever met. You’ve been living with this agony alone, and yet you kept moving forward. That doesn’t break us, Thalia. It shows me how much I need to ensure you never fight alone again.”
Nights are the hardest. The world quiets, and the thoughts get louder, images replaying in my mind like corrupted film.
Sometimes I hear footsteps that aren’t there.
Sometimes I taste blood and don’t know why.
Even when nothing is wrong, my body reacts like everything is.
Trauma rewires you. It teaches your nervous system that safety is a myth.
“You didn’t break anything,” Xander says, but he doesn’t see what I see when I look in the mirror: a girl who flinches at sudden sounds. A girl who doubts her own sanity. A girl who still feels like property. I grip the fabric of my shirt, desperate to anchor myself.
“Maybe you’re right,” I whisper. “Maybe I’m not broken.”
But I don’t believe it. Not yet.
Xander presses his forehead to mine, a silent urge to connect.
“You didn’t ruin anything. You gave me the truth, and that means everything.
” I nod, exhaling like a balloon slowly deflating.
He leans in to kiss me softly, an unhurried, tender promise that declares I’m safe, that I am right here beside him.
Xander leaves briefly to shower, and I find myself sitting at the table with an empty notebook. I’ve read online that trauma therapists recommend journaling as a coping mechanism. They say to put the fear somewhere and get it out of your body. So, I try.
I saw the silver car. I don’t know if it was him. But I felt him.
My pen digs so hard into the page that the tip tears through paper. My handwriting dissolves into scratches, like my panic is spilling out faster than ink can keep up. I flip the page and try again.
Xander is installing the locks now. He wants me safe. He calls me strong. But I don’t feel strong. I feel watched.
The next night, it begins subtly, as nights often do.
Another evening blurred by the routine shifts of headlights gliding past my window.
But this time, I sense the difference. The car doesn’t sail by; it halts, lingering in the stillness.
I freeze where I stand at the edge of the curtain, heart pounding, scarcely daring to breathe as the engine hums ominously below.
My phone trembles in my hand, ready to slip from my grasp, my finger hovering over Xander’s contact like it would save me from the impending dread.
Before I can summon the courage to press call, a new text arrives, slicing through the tension.
Unknown
You look good in the dark.
A sickening lurch takes residence in my stomach, and the phone slips from my grasp, crashing onto the floor with a sharp crack that echoes like a death knell.
My body locks, an icy grip tightening around my chest, the air disappearing as realization blares through my mind.
The number is unfamiliar, unsaved, but I know who it belongs to.
Damian.
I scramble backward, pressing myself against the wall, shaking uncontrollably. I want to scream, to flee, but my legs are heavy and unresponsive.
I grab my phone and call Xander. He answers immediately. “Thal? Baby, talk to me.” But all I can get out is a choked sob, muffled and worn-out.
Then, in a break between ragged breaths, I say, “He… texted me.”
“What did he say?”
I whisper faintly, “That I… look good in the dark. I think he’s outside.”
All Xander responds with before hanging up is, “I’m coming.”
When I finally hear Xander’s truck pull up, I run to the front window of the apartment.
From my vantage point behind the curtain, the scene unfolds like a nightmarish blur.
I see Xander’s powerful figure as he lunges forward, his hand fisting Damian’s shirt, slamming him hard against the hood of his car.
Shouts explode into the night, sharp and violent, reverberating around me in a chaotic symphony of anger.
My chest constricts painfully; this is no longer just a shadowy threat but a very real confrontation.
Flesh and bone, raw and visceral, are about to clash in a storm of pent-up rage. Someone is going to bleed.
By the time I wrench the door to my apartment open, I can already hear the sickening thud of flesh against metal. Xander has Damian pinned against the hood of the silver car, his fist crashing into his jaw repeatedly. Blood sprays with each strike, bright under the parking lot lights.
“Xander!” My voice cracks as I run barefoot across the pavement. My heart hammers, throat tight, the air filled with grunts and curses.
“Stay inside, Thalia!” he barks, never looking at me, his knuckles splitting as they slam into Damian’s face again. But I don’t listen. I can’t. I skid to a stop a few feet away, my chest heaving. Damian’s laughing, choking on his own blood.
“What’s the matter, lover boy? Scared I’ll take her back?”
Xander roars, grabbing him by the throat, squeezing until Damian’s face turns red, then purple.
For a terrifying moment, I realize he’s not going to stop. He’s going to kill him. I lunge forward, clutching at his arm. “Xander, no! Please! Don’t!”
His chest heaves, muscles trembling under my grip. His eyes are wild, almost feral, but when they flick to me, when he sees my tears, they soften just enough. His grip slackens, and Damian collapses against the hood, gasping.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Xander snarls, shoving him toward the driver’s side.
Damian spits blood onto the pavement, grinning with cracked teeth. He doesn’t say a word, just slides into the car. The engine growls, headlights glaring, and then he’s gone, peeling out of the lot like a wounded animal retreating to its den.
Xander’s hands are shaking. Mine too. He turns to me, chest rising and falling like a storm is still raging inside of him.
“You shouldn’t have come out here,” he rasps.
His knuckles are soaked in blood, and I’m not sure if it’s his or Damian’s. And yet, when he looks at me, there’s nothing but panic in his eyes. Not rage. Not fury. Fear.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice barely holding together. His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek as though he’s afraid I might disappear between blinks.
“I’m not the one bleeding,” I whisper.
“That doesn’t matter.”
He’d burn down the world for me, but he’s terrified of losing me to the flames.
I throw myself against him, clutching his bloodied hands in mine. “If I hadn’t stopped you, you’d be in jail right now. And he’d win.”
For the first time since I opened the door, silence falls over the night. But it’s not peace. It’s the quiet before something worse.
-Xander-
The adrenaline drains so fast I nearly stumble. My hands won’t stop shaking, not from fear but from restraint. I’ve never been closer to killing a man. One more second, one more taunt, and Damian’s life would be on my hands.
I would’ve done it. For her.
Thalia touches my forearm gently, coaxing me back into my body. “Come inside,” she whispers. “Please.”
I follow her steps numbly, the world still ringing with the echo of fists against bone. Inside, she grabs a washcloth and kneels between my knees, cleaning the blood from my knuckles with slow, careful movements.
“Why did you stop?” she murmurs. I swallow hard.
“Because you asked me to.”
-Damian-
Blood fills my mouth, metallic and hot, but the taste doesn’t bother me.
If anything, it sharpens me. Every time my teeth hit together as I drive, I taste the reminder.
He almost took me out. Almost. The pads of my fingers are sticky against the steering wheel, my vision blurred in one eye where he split me open.
But I’m grinning through the ache because I saw it. The way she came running out. The panic in her eyes. Not for him. For me. She still feels it. Still knows who really owns her.
That boyfriend of hers? He’s nothing. Some grease-stained wannabe hero with anger issues. He thinks he can protect her by breaking me. He has no idea what he’s up against.
I lean back against the seat, ignoring the sting as my ribs protest, and let my mind wander. I picture her the way she looked that night, small under my weight, skin hot with fear, throat tight under my hand. She fought, but she gave in, just like I knew she would. They always do.
That’s what she doesn’t understand. What he doesn’t understand. You can’t scrub me out of someone like soap and water. I’m inside her now. Burned into her. Every time he touches her, she’ll remember me. Every time she closes her eyes, I’ll be there. And soon, I’ll be there for real.
I could make it easy—kick down her door, drag her out, finish what I started—but no. That’s not my style. Fear is better when it’s slow. When it rots someone from the inside out before you touch them again.
So, I’ll wait. I’ll watch. I’ll make her think she’s safe, that he’s got her covered, and then I’ll show her how wrong she is.
I press harder on the gas, ignoring the smear of blood across the dash from my split lip. This isn’t over. It’s never been over. She’s mine.
I’ll take her back, piece by piece if I have to.