Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
-Xander-
I see the flicker of fear in her eyes, and it hits me like a wrecking ball. It’s not the fear generated by the messages or the specter of that monster lurking in her mind.
No—it’s fear of me.
The realization guts me internally, twisting my insides into knots.
Nothing has ever unraveled me like the sight of Thalia cowering from me, her form drawing back, her shoulders curling inward as if bracing for impact.
I would never harm her. God, I would never lay a finger on her.
Yet in that moment, I raised my voice, too sharp, too raw, laced with the ferocity of a wounded animal.
The obsession I carry consumed me entirely; I lost sight of everything except my fury.
I forgot that my rage is a weapon she feels too, one that inflicts damage even when it’s not aimed directly at her.
At this moment, she fails to see the storm brewing within my chest, the relentless battle between my desire to bury Damien six feet below the earth and my longing to envelop her in my arms, to hold her so tightly that all thoughts of him vanish into oblivion.
All she perceives is the tempest, and tonight, I allowed her to think she was caught in its violent spin. I cannot allow that to happen again.
Now, as I hold her, her tears seep into my shirt, forming dark, damp spots against the fabric.
Her body trembles against mine like a fragile leaf in a gust of wind.
I whisper apologies into her hair, each word filled with a desperate yearning for forgiveness, like a man begging for absolution from a judgment I fear I deserve.
But I know deep down that I haven’t earned it, not yet.
Because the promise I made to her—to keep her safe and shield her from fear and helplessness—was shattered tonight.
Not through violence or physical strength, but through my uncontrolled temper.
If I ever wish for her to trust me again, if I ever long for her to look at me without that brief flicker of fear darting across her face, I have to make this right.
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.
Sound—Xander’s breathing, steady, steady, steady.
Smell—coffee and the faint scent of motor oil clinging to his skin.
Taste—copper from my own fear.
It helps. Just barely. But barely is enough to keep me here, in this kitchen, in this moment, instead of being dragged backward into the dark.
-Xander-
I notice it instantly when the mug hits the counter.
The way Thalia jolts, her shoulders curling inward as if preparing for an impending blow, and it stabs at my heart.
Guilt twists inside me like a hot blade, burning more intensely than any anger I’ve ever felt.
It’s become painfully clear that she’s afraid of me.
Not of Damian or anyone else, just me. My hands tighten around the mug’s handle, knuckles blanching as the coffee begins to cool in my grip.
Every instinct screams for me to reach out, to pull her into my embrace and plead with her to understand that I would never intentionally hurt her.
But a different part of me, the part that witnessed her shuddering reaction to my movement, understands the need for caution.
She doesn’t require my arms crushing around her right now. What she needs are my words.
I hate that I’m capable of frightening her.
I hate that in her body, fear has muscle memory.
I’d take every bruise she’s ever carried and put them on myself if I could. Let them bloom across my skin instead. Let me be the one who carries the marks of those nights.
If I could carve a line into the universe and stand between her and every threat, including myself, I would do it without hesitation.
I used to think rage made me powerful.
But looking at her now, curled in on herself, shrinking like she’s trying to become invisible, I realize rage isn’t power.
Control is.
I’d burn down every part of myself before I let her flinch because of me again.
I carefully place the mug down this time, ensuring it lands softly, deliberately. I have to be gentle, exactly how I should have been the night before.
Restraint feels like swallowing lightning.
Every molecule in my body wants to reach for her.
But wanting isn’t the same as deserving.
I used to think strength was fighting.
Now I think it might be stopping.
Maybe the hardest thing I’ll ever do is learn how to soften without losing the parts of me that kept me alive this long.
-Thalia-
His voice breaks the silence, barely above a whisper, yet it feels monumental.
“Thalia.”
I lift my gaze from the table, my heart pounding in my chest. With hesitation, I glance up to meet his eyes, which reflect a mixture of despair and longing.
“I scared you,” he admits, without any trace of justification in his tone. Just raw, undeniable truth. “I saw it last night, and I see it now. And that’s on me.” My throat constricts painfully, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes.
“I hate that my body reacts before I can,” I whisper, not sure if he can even hear me over my pounding pulse. “I hate that I flinch. I know you’re not him, Xander. But there are moments my body forgets.”
A memory flickers, soft at first, then sharp.
A hand on my throat,
A voice telling me to be good,
A weight pinning me down.
I blink hard.
“I just don’t want to be broken anymore.” The words spill out before I can stop them. I’ve never told anyone that, not even Isla. But with Xander, the truth slips out like my body has been waiting for the moment to release it.
He looks like he’s been stabbed.
I want to protest, to explain that I know he didn't mean to frighten me, but the undeniable reality sits heavily on my heart.
I am scared. And he knows it too.