Page 4 of Frozen Obsession

Well, here we are. MINE.

"Roman, what the hell have you done?" my dad whispers, his voice trembling. His hazel eyes sparkling with unshed tears reflecting a mix of fear and heartbreak.

But I won't stop. I just keep going, even as they stare, because this is what it took to claim what’s MINE.

"ROMAN!" My dad’s voice is a distant echo as I reach the point of no return. I push deep inside Xena, marking her as mine, my seed spilling into her, claimingher in every way. Blood is everywhere—on her, on me, soaking through the mattress. I can hear her mother trying to push past my dad, who just remains there frozen in horror watching as his monster of a son destroys all he’s ever loved.

I tried.

Xena’s eyes are wide, filled with hate, but also something else. Something that makes me smirk; once again, she clenches around my length. "That’s it. Look at me when you cum. You know who you belong to."

She trembles beneath me, her body betraying her with every pulse. And that’s all I need. The satisfaction of knowing she can't resist, that she has given in to what she truly wants.

Me.

I look down at her, my dick still inside her; those pouty lips quiver. Our eyes are fixed on each other. But just as I’m about to lose myself in the moment once again, reality crashes back in. My dad is still standing there, eyes locked on me like he’s staring at a monster. Maybe he is. I finally pull out and let go of Xena, turning to face him as I tuck in my cock.

"Roman, what the fuck have you done?" he repeats, with a shaking voice. He looks like he’s aged ten years in the span of a few seconds.

"I took what was mine," I say, my voice cold, detached. "She’s always been mine, Dad."

He doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. Behind him, Xena’s mom is still frozen in place, staring at her daughter like she doesn’t even recognize her. The sight of Xena lying there, covered in blood and broken, seems to snap something in her. She lets out a guttural scream and collapses to the floor. Walking past them I walk outside, but not before hearing my stepmother call the cops. My eyes remain fixed on my hands staring at the crimson that stained them. I let out a deep breath before staring into the sky. I don’t know how long I remain standing out in the cold staring at the sky, mind blank. All I can hear are the screams thatcome from inside the house.

The police arrived quickly after that. I don’t resist as they drag me out of the house, hands cuffed behind my back, still slick with crimson. "Ro," I hear Xena call, but I don’t look back as they shove me into the squad car. What’s done is done.

The days that follow blur into a haze of cold concrete walls and endless questions. They try to get me to talk, to explain why I did it, but I remain silent. There’s nothing to explain. Xena was mine, and I did what I had to do to ensure she knew it. A doctor said I was "mental"—to be exact, he claimed I snapped. He diagnosed me with several disorders, the most prominent being antisocial personality disorder. For days, I didn’t speak—until that night.

On New Year’s Eve, I got the news: my dad’s dead. Suicide. He hung himself in our shed. Apparently, he couldn’t handle the shame, the guilt. I’m not surprised. He was always weak like that—kind, but weak.

But it doesn’t matter. I’m locked up now, and all I have left are memories of that night. Memories of Xena’s body trembling beneath me. Memories of her wide, terrified eyes as I claimed her.

I’m sick. I’m obsessed.

And I’d do it all over again.

Chapter One

Xena

I hate going into town. People stare, their whispers cutting through the cold air like knives. But we need to eat, and no amount of shame would fill our empty fridge. I step out of Senior’s old truck, the door groaning as it swings open. My breath fogs in front of me, mingling with the sight of another busted window in the house. Our home—once so full of life—now a crumbling shell of its former glory. The hate from the town hasn’t stopped since that Christmas. They blame me. I blame myself.

I rub my hands together, grimacing as I notice the chips in my black nail polish. With a frustrated groan, I walk around the truck, inspecting the tires for any surprises. My combat boots crunch against the snow, and I can feel the chill seeping through my thin black tights. I tuck a strand of my black hair behind my ear as I lean down to examine the tires closely.

"Fuck. Again," I mutter under my breath, spotting the slash in the rubber—a deep gash that marks the third time this month. I kick at the snow in frustration, but the action does little to ease my anger. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself.

We need food. We need money. The only person willing to help is Tony—the owner of Tits ‘n’ Grits. The fucker makes me suck him off for a few bucks here and there. My mom doesn’t know it, but it helps keep food on the table and the lights on. She hasn’t taken care of herself like she used to, and I can’t shake the fear that one day she’ll be the next one to go.

The cold bites through my jacket as I head back inside, snatching the mail onmy way in. I shake off the snow from my boots at the door, the stale stench of cigarette smoke and cheap beer assaulting my nose. I glance down at the white envelope in my hand, Roman’s handwriting scrawled across it. My chest tightens. Another letter. Another gut punch. My vision blurs, but I blink back the tears. I can’t cry for him. Not anymore. He wrecked everything.

The moans from the other room cut through the silence—loud, desperate, and disgustingly familiar. Skin slapping against skin, muffled grunts, and my mom’s voice echoing through the thin walls. I grit my teeth, heading straight for the kitchen. The fridge creaks open, and I grab a bottle of cheap beer, popping it open and taking a long swig. The bitter taste is hollow, but it numbs the ache.

I make my way to the living room, praying no one will bother me, and collapse onto the worn-out couch. I can still hear them. My mom, selling herself to keep this rundown cabin standing. I swallow the bitterness in my throat as I take another sip.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me from the bleak reality. I glance at the screen. Dylan. A quick text from my boyfriend. He's a good guy—too good for me. Military, built like a brick house, and always saying the right thing. I use him as a distraction, but it never sticks. Nothing does.

The heavy thud of footsteps fills the room, and my stomach knots tighter with every step. Andy—my mom’s useless boyfriend and the man who’s destroyed whatever was left of me—draws closer. His greasy hair hangs limp, and his bloodshot eyes gleam with that twisted hunger I’ve come to dread. He shakes a pill bottle in his hand, the rattle a sick reminder of the control he holds. A smug grin spreads across his face, making my skin crawl.

"You gonna be a good girl for me?" he taunts, his voice thick with filth.

---