Page 8 of Frozen Obsession

The guard hands me a bag. My old clothes—the ones I came in with a decade ago. It feels laughable. I don’t even care what’s inside. I toss it over my shoulder, knowing none of it holds any meaning anymore.

I glance at the guard. His face is unreadable as he watches me, like he knows what’s about to happen once I’m out. But he doesn’t matter. No one does.

The only thing that matters is that I’m free. Free to find her. Free to take backwhat’s mine.

The gates creak open, and the December air hits me like a slap. It’s been so long since I’ve felt the cold bite into my skin like this. But I welcome it. It feels real. I step out, the wind sharp and icy, slicing through the thin sweatshirt I’m wearing. A younger guard, fresh-faced and clueless, hands me my release papers.

"Stay out of trouble, Delgado," he says, like he’s doing me a favor, like he’s offering advice I never asked for. I grin at him, and it’s not a nice grin. It’s the kind that makes people uneasy.

"I plan to," I reply smoothly, even though we both know it’s a lie.

I start walking, my boots crunching against the gravel that stretches out into the world beyond these walls. I don’t look back. There’s no point. My past is dead. What lies ahead? That’s where I’m focused. That’s where she is.

Xena. Her tan skin. The way she moved. The way she looked at me, torn between wanting to run and wanting to stay, to give in. And now, she’s out there, thinking she’s free. But she’s not. She never was.

As I walk, my breath turns into white clouds, disappearing into the cold. A grin curls across my lips as I whisper to the wind, "Xena, baby, you better be ready. Because this time, I’m not just coming for you. This time, I’m going to break you. Piece by piece, I’ll tear you down. And when you’re nothing but dust, I’ll rebuild you. Mine. All mine."

The road stretches ahead, long and empty. But each step brings me closer. Closer to her. Fourteen days before Christmas. Fourteen days until she’s mine again. Let the fun begin.

Chapter Five

Xena

The club is draped in its usual half-hearted attempt at holiday cheer—twinkling Christmas lights strung along the ceiling, oversized candy canes leaning awkwardly in the corners, and garlands draped over every available surface. In one corner, a massive fake Christmas tree stands, flashing with cheap, colorful bulbs. The sight is gaudy, almost laughable, but it fits. None of it feels festive, not really. The music pumping through the speakers is some bizarre mashup of Christmas classics and electronic remixes, an odd backdrop to the usual haze of bodies and alcohol.

But none of it touches me. The holiday spirit, the lights, the decor—it’s all just background noise, drowned out by the familiar hum in my head. I’d taken something earlier, something to help me survive the night, and now everything is soft around the edges. The lights blur, the sounds blend together. My mind floats just above the crowd, detached, while my body moves mechanically.

I’m dressed in the usual Christmas costume they push this time of year—a red lace "sexy Mrs. Claus" outfit, complete with a tiny red thong that leaves nothing to the imagination. It’s the same kind of tacky crap they expect dancers to wear every December. My hips sway in time with the bass, circling the pole with practiced ease, my body on autopilot as the crowd cheers. Drunk on overpriced Christmas cocktails, they hoot and holler, faces flushed under the dim glow of the lights. One guy, already half-gone, fumbles with a Santa hat that’s barely hanging on his head as he tosses back another shot.

I smirk, throwing a teasing glance over my shoulder as I twist around the pole,playing into the holiday vibe even though I don’t feel it. I never do. I’m just here to get through the night, make some money, and get out.

But then, mid-spin, I feel it—that cold, creeping sensation that slithers down my spine, like someone’s trailing icy fingers along my skin. My smile falters for a split second, and my grip tightens on the pole. Something’s here, something lurking just beyond the flashing lights and cheap decorations. The festive mask I wear slips, and I force it back into place, but the pit in my stomach tightens.

Spinning again, I catch sight of him. He’s sitting at the back of the club, near the fake Christmas tree. The lights barely reach him, casting him in shadow. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t cheer or drink like the others. He just watches me. I can’t see his face, not fully, but I can feel his eyes—burning into me with a heat that makes my skin crawl. The oversized Santa cutouts plastered along the walls behind him grin their frozen, cheery smiles, but his presence is anything but festive. It’s dark, oppressive, like a storm hanging heavy in the air.

I swallow hard, forcing my body to keep moving, to keep up the show. But I know he’s watching me. His eyes don’t leave me for a second, and every step I take feels like a string pulling tighter, wrapping around me.

It’s him. I know it’s him.

Even after all these years, I can feel it. I can feelhim.

I try to shake it off. It’s just another guy. But there’s something wrong about him, something off in the way he stands so still, like he’s waiting for something. As I arch my back and flip my hair, I catch it—his hand moving under the table, slow and deliberate. There was no mistaking what was happening.

He’s touching himself. Right there. Watching me.

Normally, I don’t care. It’s part of the job—some guys get off without even stepping foot in a private room. But this… this feels different. The garlands and lights overhead feel suffocating, like they’re trapping me with him. I glance away, trying to focus on the other faces in the crowd, but I keep being drawn back to him.

There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place it. My thoughts are too foggy, too muddled. The unease in my gut twists, but there’s a thrill too—one I can’t deny. There’s danger in his aura, a dark vibe that sends a chill through me. It terrifies me. And excites me. Much like Roman’s did. Could it be? No. It’s not time yet.

"Xena!" Tony’s voice snaps me back to reality. "Private client, now."

I blink, breaking the spell. Nodding, I grab my robe and follow Tony to the back rooms, trying to leave the stranger’s gaze behind. It’s Christmas season, just another gig. I can get through this, like I always do.

The back room is decorated too—a sad little wreath on the door and a small bowl of candy canes on the desk. It almost makes me laugh. I adjust my robe and turn to face the man who’s already seated, watching me with hungry eyes.

He’s balding, mid-forties maybe, with a potbelly straining against his cheap Christmas sweater. His tie is half-loosened, and a Santa pin wobbles on his collar as he shifts in the seat. I force a smile, stepping closer.

"What’s your name, sweetheart?" he asks, his breath smelling like peppermint schnapps.

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