Page 7 of Frozen Obsession

Marcos grins at me, his hunger palpable. I lie back and open my legs wider. He goes down on me eagerly, though he’s not very skilled. I focus on the Christmas lights and the half-assed decorating job I did. Christmas is the worst time of year for me. It reminds me of everything I lost because of Roman. I should’ve known his jealousy and possessiveness would lead to this. I toyed with him, expecting mind-blowing, painful sex—not him killing Steve. But you live and learn.

I push the thoughts aside and try to focus on Marcos’s tongue lapping between my folds. His eagerness is laughable, but in a pathetic sort of way, it’s almost endearing. As he continues, I trace the outline of a silver tinsel dangling over us.Almost ten years.

It's been nearly ten years since that night, and soon Roman will be out. I wonder if he ever thinks about me. The thought starts to consume me just as Marcos replaces his tongue with his cock. Thank God he's wearing a condom. He slips inside me with a groan, pulling me back to the present.

"Fuck, this pussy feels good," he mutters, pounding into me.

Marcos’s thrusts are hard and fast, devoid of any finesse. But they get the job done. Soon, I feel that familiar spark kindling low in my belly. As Marcos huffs and puffs above me, my mind drifts back to Roman. Christmas Eve with him, covered in blood as I took everything he dished out. I miss that. Not the part where he went to prison for killing someone, but the depravity that matched my own. I miss us.

My mind plays that night on an endless loop: Roman’s ice-cold gaze, the unyielding strength in his grip, the scent of coppery blood and pine needles in the air. It was brutal, raw, but it was real. I felt alive. Looking at Marcos above me, his eyes hazy from the drugs, I realize how empty this is by comparison.

Marcos pushes into me again, hitting that sweet spot, and a moan escapes my lips. I close my eyes, but all I see is Roman. And those green eyes with golden flecks—just one look, and I come hard, almost violently. The pleasure roars through me, consuming and vicious, like a wildfire raging through the dry forest of my soul. Marcos grunts above me, content with his small victory, and I let him have it. He collapses beside me and falls asleep instantly.

The drugs finally take full effect. Instead of the usual numbness, I feel a strange sense of clarity. Even as Jimmy and Marcos use me, I remember the night Roman claimed me. I vowed never to let anyone truly control me again. Tonight, the Christmas lights are a bitter reminder of that promise, a cruel irony in the midst of my misery. The pills dull the pain, but they don’t erase the memories. And as I lie there, I know one thing for sure: no matter how much I try to bury the past, push the memories down, they always resurface to drag me down. I can never truly escape them.

My thoughts drift back to the Christmas when Roman and I were teenagers, our parents having gotten together.

It was Christmas Eve, and I had few clothes. Roman, noticing, gave me a black hoodie. It was a simple gesture, but it meant so much. I remember the warmth in his eyes and his rare smile as he handed it to me. It was a fleeting moment of kindness in a world that felt so cold.

But that was before everything went wrong. Before Roman’s jealousy and possessiveness led to actions that left scars.

With Marcos asleep beside me, my mind remains consumed by Roman and the past that won’t let go. The Christmas lights flicker above, cruel reminders of everything I’ve lost. The pills may dull the pain, but the memories remain.

And as the night stretches on, the past blends with the present. Those flickering lights are a reminder that the cycle of pain and memories is far from over.

Chapter Four

Roman

As I sit here in this small cell, my breath shallow, thinking of her—of that night, of everything that followed—I can feel it creeping back up. The rage. The desire. It’s been almost ten years, but time does nothing to erase the burn, the need for her. She’s everything I lost, everything that was taken from me. My father couldn’t handle it. He offed himself not even two weeks after I was locked up. Not that I blame him. I’ve always been a shit son—must’ve gotten that from my mom. Maybe it was the shame of what I became, or maybe he just couldn’t face what I’d always been. Either way, he left me to rot in here with nothing but my thoughts and memories.

And God, I’ve spent every single day thinking about Xena. Every night imagining how I’ll take back what’s mine. Not just claim her—but break her. Destroy whatever part of her thinks she can live without me. I remember the way she looked that night as they dragged me off—lips parted, eyes wide. But it wasn’t fear. No, it was something else. She knew. She knew she could never escape me. Deep down, I know she didn’t really want to.

Fourteen days before Christmas. That’s how much time I have. The countdown starts now. Cedarvale has no idea what’s coming, but Xena… she’ll know soon enough. By Christmas Eve, she’ll be begging for release. But I won’t give it to her. Not until she’s shattered, remade into something I can finally own completely. Not until she’s exactly who she was always meant to be mine, in every twisted, broken way.

I lie here on my cot for the last time after almost ten long years in this hell.Tomorrow, I’ll be free. No more barriers. No more walls between us.

Morning light filters through the small, grimy window of my cell when I open my eyes. It’s cold, pale, almost lifeless—just like everything else in this place. I didn’t sleep much in prison, but last night I finally drifted off. I needed time to move faster, for morning to come already. Somewhere between moping, reading, and losing myself in the same tired thoughts, I must’ve passed out. A rare thing.

Old man Carl should’ve been here to see me walk out of this hellhole. He wanted to be there, the moment I was free, to say his goodbyes. But he died two years ago, of a heart attack. Another memory to leave behind in this godforsaken place. After Carl, they didn’t bother giving me another cellmate. I got too aggressive, I guess. So, they stuck me in isolation. Fine by me. It gave me time to think. And all that thinking? It always came back to her.

Xena Romero. Doesn’t matter how many years have passed, she’s mine—my woman, my whore, my stepsister. And God help whoever she’s with. No one gets to have her. Not then, not now. No one but me.

From down the hall, I hear the guards’ boots—heavy, familiar, the sound of them marching down the concrete. They’re coming for me. I fell asleep dressed, ready to go. Not that I’ve got much. Just these grey sweats and a crewneck that the prison tossed my way. But I don’t need much. I’ve got everything I need in my mind. The past? It’s staying here. The trauma, the pain? That can rot with this place. The only thing that matters now is the future. Going home. Getting her back.

"Delgado, get moving," one of the guards' barks, his voice snapping through the silence like a whip. It jolts me into action, my muscles tightening as I stand. Aslow smile spreads across my face. Finally. I’m going home. To her. She’s my home. My everything.

The sound of keys jingles outside my cell, the metallic rattle echoing louder than usual. This time, it means freedom. The door creaks open, and adrenaline surges through me, making my heart pound against my ribs. The guards’ boots thud closer. This time, the sound doesn’t fill me with dread. It fills me with anticipation.

The door swings wide. I step forward, a wave of cold air rushing over me from the hallway. I’m free.

Finally.

Processing my release doesn’t take long. Some gruff guy behind a desk, a permanent scowl etched into his face, barely looks at me as he shoves a few papers my way.

"Sign," he grumbles, his voice flat and bored. I’m sure he’s saying something else, droning on, but I don’t hear him. My mind’s already far ahead, racing toward her. I think of Xena—her smile, that soft, wicked grin she’d flash when no one else was watching. Her laughter, the warmth of it, like home. Like everything I’ve ever needed wrapped up in one twisted, perfect package.

I scrawl my name without a second thought, not even registering what I’m signing. It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is getting out of here. Getting back to her. I can almost feel her already—the heat of her skin, the curve of her lips, the look in her eyes when she used to watch me, half scared, half wanting me to take everything.

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