Chapter 33 #2
I close my eyes and inhale slow and steady, feeling the sting of iron cutting into my wrists. Pain grounds me; it reminds me I am still here. Still conscious. Still fighting. I imagine Xander’s voice instead.
You fight.
You climb.
You rise.
Damian wants me to break.
But Xander wants me to live.
He doesn’t get to decide the final chapter.
I open my eyes, letting the fury rise.
-Xander-
I hit redial, heart pounding, even though deep down I know she won’t answer.
Each ring is a hammering nail piercing my chest with dread.
“Come on, baby. Please hold on. Just hold on,” I urge the phone, desperation clawing at my throat.
I slam on the accelerator, rage surging through my veins like wildfire.
Damian’s days are numbered; he just doesn’t know it yet.
My pulse hammers as I force myself to breathe evenly. Rage doesn’t help me track. Rage gets people killed.
I scan the road, eyes moving fast but precise, tire marks diagonal, not straight. He took a turn too fast. Sloppy. Overconfident.
Good.
The night air is a slap of cold against my face as I step out. I crouch, brushing fingertips over the dirt. A shoe print. A dragged semicircle. Thalia’s.
My chest aches.
“She fought,” I whisper, pride and terror tearing at me equally.
I straighten, jaw clenching.
He thinks he’s the hunter.
But he is prey.
-Damian-
She looks so small, almost fragile, huddled in this cold, unforgiving basement, chained and trembling beneath the harsh glare of the single lightbulb.
Perfect.
I slowly drag a chair across the concrete floor, relishing the way it screeches and makes her flinch. The knife rests casually in my hand, not yet pressed against her skin. No, I thrive in the wait. Fear flourishes best when it’s allowed to simmer.
“You’ve been playing house with him, haven’t you?
” I murmur, leaning closer, my breath mingling with the soft scent of her hair, a faint trace of shampoo that reminds me of the life I once had claim to.
“Pretending you’re safe. Pretending he can keep you warm, keep you clean, keep you his.
” A sharp, hollow laugh escapes my lips as I set the knife flat against my thigh, an unwelcome reminder of my power.
“But we both know you’re mine. You’ve always belonged to me.
He’s just a placeholder, a decoy while you wait for me to reclaim what’s rightfully mine. ”
She turns her face away, a flicker of defiance igniting within her, but I grip her chin, my fingers digging deep enough that her jaw could crack under the pressure.
“Don’t look away from me, Thalia. You should be grateful for this moment.
Most men wouldn’t waste their time trying to teach you a lesson; they’d simply cast you aside.
But me? I’m generous. I’ll make sure you remember this.
” I gesture toward the rattling chains binding her wrists.
“This isn’t punishment, sweetheart. It’s a gift. ”
-Thalia-
He circles me like a serpent, eyes sharp with manic certainty. “Do you know what I love about you?” Damian asks.
His tone is conversational. Gentle. As if we’re sitting in a café rather than a basement with a handcuff around my wrist. He drags his fingers along the wall, collecting dust, then flicks it away like it disgusts him.
“You break beautifully.” He waits for a reaction, head tilting, studying me with clinical interest.
“I don’t break,” I rasp.
His smile grows slow and patient. “Oh, sweetheart. You don’t understand. Breaking isn’t always loud.”
He kneels, brushing hair out of my face with two fingers. Careful. Tender. It makes my skin crawl.
“Breaking,” he whispers, “is learning to obey without being asked.”
I don’t move. I don’t blink.
His eyes darken with satisfaction.
“There it is.”
He saw something I didn’t mean to show, and the realization burns like acid.
“You don’t get it,” he says, voice low, reverent. “The world doesn’t see you. Not the real you. They see softness. Sweetness. A little bird beating herself against the bars.” He leans closer, breath hot on my neck. “But I saw the fire. I fed it.”
His fingers trail along my cheek with sick affection.
“I’m the only one who ever understood what you could become.”
His delusion is a universe he created and crowned himself king of.
I will burn it to the ground. He leans back, fascinated by the panic that flares in my eyes, that intoxicating blend of rage and despair that renders me utterly beautiful.
“Xander thinks he’s coming to save you,” he chuckles darkly, the sound void of warmth.
“Let him try. Let him walk through that door and discover just how futile his efforts truly are.”
Damian paces, muttering under his breath now, words incoherent, fragmented.
“He ruins everything,” he hisses. “He stole you. He stole my life.”
He’s cracking.
“He knows the ending is coming. When he finds you shattered and begging, he will understand the brutal truth. He was never your savior. He was simply the audience. And I? I am the show.”
Blood pools at my palm. The cuff tears skin with every movement, warm streaks sliding down my arm. It hurts. God, it hurts. But pain means I’m still conscious. Pain means I can still fight.
I curl my fingers into fists.
If Damian wants a show, I’ll give him one.
Each soft clink of the links sparks amusement in Damian, his smile wide and smug, as if our situation is an inside joke he’s dying to share.
“Your body remembers me. It wants me.”
The implication of his words churns my stomach, rising like bile. My body doesn’t yearn for him; it remembers anguish and torment. For a blink, I’m cornered again in his apartment doorway, where the stench of stale beer and lies filled the air. His hand slammed beside my head, blocking escape.
“Love hurts,” he’d said. “Only people worth something get broken.”
And I believed him.
I believed that pain was proof of value.
But now?
Pain is proof of survival. It recalls the visceral fear that coursed through me the night everything I loved was ripped away.
He crouches down in front of me, invading my personal space, the scent of stale beer mingling with an insistent hint of cologne that struggles to mask the sour odor of his sweat. “You should thank me,” he murmurs.
“For what?” My voice cracks.
“For showing you what love looks like.”
He says it like a fact. Like an unchangeable truth.
“As long as I’m alive,” he adds, brushing his knuckles over my cheek, “you don’t get to walk away. You don’t get to choose.”
A chill tears down my spine.
Xander’s voice echoes in my head. ‘You always have a choice.’
But Damian leans in until his breath ghosts my lips.
“Not with me.”
His fingers trail deliberately against my thigh, inching upward with menacing slowness.
In a sudden surge of defiance, I jerk my knee up with all the force I can muster, and the sound of the chain clattering echoes in the cramped space.
My knee connects with his chest, and for a fleeting moment, I see it; his composure falters, the mask of the confident predator slipping just a fraction, revealing a glimmer of surprise at my unexpected rebellion.
His jaw ticks, the first fracture in his mask.
“Oh,” I whisper, voice sharp with satisfaction. “Didn’t expect the toy to bite back?”
He snarls, an animal cornered.
Good.
I want him scared.
“Don’t touch me,” I enunciate, my voice trembling yet infused with a newfound strength that surprises me. My heart thunders in my chest, as if it’s trying to break free from its bony cage, but I maintain his gaze, unwilling to back down. “You don’t own me. You never did.”
His grin twists grotesquely, morphing into something more sinister. He seizes my jaw with a grip so tight it sends a jolt of pain radiating through my bones, forcing my face to tilt up towards his menacing gaze.
“Remember the first time you listened to me?” Damian smiles, nostalgia coating his words like sugar over poison. “You froze so perfectly. Most girls cry first.” His eyes drag down my body. “But not you. You submit.”
“I never submitted,” I whisper.
“Yes, you did,” he murmurs. “Your body remembers.”
A knife flashes menacingly, grazing the skin along my collarbone, leaving a whisper of fear in its wake.
He presses the flat of the knife to my sternum, letting it rest there without cutting. Not yet. “You know what the best part is?” he murmurs. “You taught him how to love you, but I taught you how to fear.”
His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.
“And fear always wins. Every time you resist, you only make me want to break you more.”
Yet, he pauses. He doesn’t strike, doesn’t escalate the violence. He relishes my fear, the power he feels when I am at my lowest, begging for mercy. I lift my eyes and meet his dead stare with cold clarity.
“You think breaking me means owning me,” I whisper. “But you never understood… You only forged the weapon that will kill you.”
I am not helpless.
I am loading the gun.
He seeks my submission more than he craves my pain, and I refuse to give him either. He is not infallible. He bleeds. He stumbles. He rattles with the pressure of a prey that has finally dared to bare its teeth. And one day, he will fall.