Page 5 of Frozen Obsession

He plops down in Senior’s old chair, and my chest tightens. He doesn’t belong there. Seeing him in that spot feels like a violation. Andy pats his knee, that sick smile of his widening to expose his rotted teeth. "Come sit on Santa’s lap, Xena. Earn your spot on the nice list."

I want to puke. My lip curls in disgust, but I force myself to move. I know better.My mom’s probably off with one of Andy’s friends right now, doing whatever she needs to keep this leech from turning his attention on me. But she doesn’t know—he’s already claimed me. He’s already shattered what’s left of me.

I move like a puppet, my mind already pulling me away from here, from him. Drifting to a place where he can’t reach me.

The Christmas lights twinkle around the fireplace, mocking me, reminding me how much I fucking hate this time of year. Andy’s hand snakes up my skirt, tearing through my thin stockings. His fingers fumble between my legs, trying to work some magic, but my body refuses to respond. There’s nothing there for him. I’m as dry as the Sahara, repulsed by every second of this. My legs and mouth fall open anyway, defeated. One hand clumsily toys with my pussy while the other forces a pill past my lips. My phone buzzes again in my pocket, but it’s too late. There’s no escaping this. I’m at Andy’s mercy.

We all are.

I hate Roman for it. But deep down, maybe I hate myself more. If I hadn’t pushed him so hard, if I hadn’t begged him to show me I was his, none of this would’ve happened. Roman wouldn’t be in prison. Senior would still be alive. My mom wouldn’t be a hollow shell, and I wouldn’t be trapped in this nightmare, letting this filthy piece of shit ruin me over and over again.

Andy’s hands roam, but my mind drifts far away. I focus on the Christmas lights, the soft glow blurring as my thoughts turn to Roman. I wonder how he’s holding up in that cell. I hope his Christmas is just as shitty as mine.

Merry fucking Christmas.

Chapter Two

Roman

My eyes stay locked on the cold gray concrete walls, replaying the trial over and over in my head. Ten fucking years. To most, that’s a lifetime, but considering I could’ve gotten life, it’s a gift. A shred of hope that maybe, one day, I’ll get back to her.

I sit on my bunk, staring at the wall, while Carl rambles on beside me. He’s a mammoth of a man, bald and old enough to be my father. A killer with some weird sense of honor, and unfortunately, my cellmate. His voice drones, sounding too much like my pops.

"You know, boy, ten years ain’t so bad for what you did. Hell, that was a sweet deal," he says, waving a newspaper clipping in front of me. The bold headline screams about my sentencing.

Fuck, news travels fast. My sentencing was just days ago, but in a small town, nothing stays quiet. My jaw aches, still tender from the last brawl. At least this time I wasn’t stabbed.

Life’s been a nightmare, but I have to keep pushing. Nine more years until I can hold her again. Nine fucking years until Xena’s back in my arms. I just have to survive it. For her.

I wonder if she’s even reading the letters. Three hundred and sixty-five of them. Not one reply. Not even a word. I won’t lie—it pisses me off. Each day the silence gnaws at me, festering, slowly turning into resentment.

But still Ineedher. Her little temper tantrum better end soon because all is doing is adding heat to my already burning rage. I hated this, being away from her.

"You listening, boy?" Carl snaps me back to reality. I grunt, not really in the mood to chat. He shakes his head and stands, moving from his bunk toward mine. His green eyes scan my face, taking in the black eye and split lip. "They got you good this time," he mutters, nodding at the damage.

I smirk, wiping the blood from my lip. "You should see the other guy."

Carl’s concern is obvious, though I’m not sure if it’s pity or something else. "It’s fucking Christmas. You’d think those assholes would back off for a day," he says, shaking his head. But I don’t respond. My mind’s elsewhere, drifting to Xena. My sanity. My religion. The only thing keeping me from falling apart.

Keys jingle in the distance, and I hear the guards approaching. They always walk slowly, like they’re savoring every second of the control they have. "Delgado, shower time," one of them calls out, smirking.

Carl stiffens beside me. "I’ll shower with the boy," he says, stepping forward, but the guard stops him with a sneer.

"Not your time," the guard drawls.

I can feel it—the tension in the air, thick and heavy. My adrenaline kicks in, muscles tightening with the familiar anticipation of violence. I know what’s coming. People aren't happy about the way I got off for killing Golden Boy. His family’s loaded, and Cedarvale isn’t about to let me forget it.

"It’s all good, Carl. Just a shower," I say, trying to sound casual, but even I don’t believe it. Carl sure as hell doesn’t, his eyes narrowing as he watches me walk away. Maybe this is where I die.

I follow the guards down the cold, dimly lit hallway, my slides slapping against the cracked tile. The shower room smells like mildew, damp and claustrophobic. The echoes of dripping water fill the silence as I strip down, stepping into the spray. The water’s lukewarm, but it stings against the cuts on my skin. I try to focus on the feel of the water, on anything to keep the gnawing dread at bay.

I hear them before I feel them—footsteps behind me, shuffling like predators circling their prey. The guards whisper something to each other, laughing under their breath. My heart pounds, my muscles tense. I force my thoughts back to Xena. Always her. Always the thought of her soft skin, her lips… But instead, my cock stirs, and for a second, I consider stroking myself just for a release, something to take the edge off.

My hand barely grazes my cock when the first blow lands, a fist slamming into the back of my head.

"Merry Christmas, sicko," one of the prisoners' snarls. I stagger forward, but before I can recover, another kick hits me square in the ribs, knocking the wind out of me. "Golden Boy’s family sends their regards," he hisses, driving his boot into my gut.

I hit the tile floor hard, gasping for air. My skull throbs, but the real pain hasn’t even begun. Fingers tangle in the longer part of my hair, yanking my head back, and then I feel it—the sharp burn, the violent intrusion. I bite down hard on my lip, refusing to scream. Refusing to give them the satisfaction as his cock slams into me.

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