Obsessed

Chapter 51

The snow fell thicker now, dense flakes swallowing the world in cold silence as Mark gripped the wheel tighter. The call from dispatch echoed in his head.

Arthur Bennett. A name that had gone unnoticed in the earlier searches. Owner of an old, remote cabin. Right near the icy waters of Stony Creek Lake.

The cabin hadn’t been used in years, according to the records. But a neighboring ranger had once reported seeing tire tracks there last winter. Now, it made sense. William—or Victor—must’ve kept it off the grid for a reason.

Mark’s knuckles whitened as he drove through the narrow, winding road that twisted along the edge of the frozen lake. The truck's headlights bounced off snow-covered trees and the icy sheen of the water glistening in the moonlight.

When the lake’s edge came into view, Mark pulled off into a small clearing, well before the driveway. He didn’t want to risk alerting anyone. He grabbed his flashlight, gun, and tactical gloves from the passenger seat, and just his black thermal shirt on.

The wind whipped against his face as he stepped out, boots crunching in the thick snow. But he didn’t feel the cold. Couldn’t. Not with the fire in his blood. Not when Ronnie could be just up ahead.

He moved quickly through the woods, sticking to the shadows between the trees, ducking under branches weighed heavy with snow. His breath came in short, quiet bursts. He kept low, practiced, every movement deliberate.

Then, through the trees, it appeared—a cabin.

Old, two stories, its wooden siding cracked and weatherworn. A porch that sagged in the middle, a rocking chair half-buried in snow. The place had the bones of childhood memories—and nightmares.

A light glowed from the second floor. Just one. The rest of the house was shrouded in darkness.

Mark crouched behind the thick trunk of a pine and studied the perimeter. No movement. No footsteps in the snow around the front door, but he wasn’t naïve enough to think he was alone.

Gun raised, he crept toward the porch, each step careful, calculated. He tested the front door. Locked. Deadbolt.

He scanned the windows. One to the left, just above the porch railing, was cracked open. Slightly.

Careless. Or a trap.

Didn’t matter.

Mark climbed up, easing the window higher. It creaked. He froze, waited, but heard no movement inside. Only the low groan of the wind.

He slipped in quietly, boots landing on worn wood.

The interior smelled like rot and dust. Faintly sweet—like old perfume clinging to age. The downstairs was dim, only lit by the glow of the moon filtering in through the windowpanes. A torn couch sat against the far wall, a broken coffee table in front of it, and a child’s toy—an old spinning top—lay forgotten on the floor.

He moved through the first floor like a ghost, scanning every corner with his flashlight off. He didn’t need it. His senses were sharp. Every sound, every creak of wood under his boots, registered.

Kitchen—empty. Drawers half-open. A single cup on the counter. Stains on the floor.

Hall closet—cleaning supplies. Nothing useful.

Bathroom—small, tiles cracked. A smear of something dark on the sink. Blood?

Mark’s jaw tightened.

He finally reached the narrow staircase leading to the second floor. The wood groaned under his weight, but he kept light on his feet, gun raised, eyes scanning every shadow.

As he reached the top landing, he heard it.

A soft sound. A choked breath.

Then a voice—familiar. Strained.

“Mark…?”

His heart slammed against his ribs.

He rushed toward the light.

The door was partially open. He pushed it wider, gun first—

And saw her.

Ronnie.

She was chained to the bed. Her wrists raw. Her hair matted, eyes wide and wet with panic. Her lips parted.

“Mark, watch out!”

But it was too late.

A sharp crack split the air as something slammed into the back of his skull. White-hot pain exploded behind his eyes.

The world tilted.

Mark dropped to one knee, vision swimming. He saw Ronnie lunge against the chains, screaming, “No!” before another blow knocked him forward.

Darkness swept over him like a tide.

Everything went black.

----------------------

Mark stirred with a sharp gasp against the gag, his entire body aching as consciousness clawed its way back into him. Pain flared at the base of his skull—white-hot and pulsing—as something warm dripped slowly down the back of his neck.

Blood.

He was upright—no, seated. Restrained.

His arms were tied to the arms of a wooden chair, wrists raw against thick rope. Ankles bound to the legs. His chest throbbed with a tight ache he knew well—bruised ribs, maybe cracked. The room swam, but he forced his eyes to focus.

There was a foul taste of rust and fabric in his mouth. A strip of cloth gagged him, tied tight behind his head, his teeth digging into it.

His vision steadied.

And then he saw her.

Ronnie.

Chained to a thick wooden pillar directly in front of him. Her arms were stretched above her head, wrists bound in steel cuffs hooked to a thick metal ring. Her face was pale, tear-streaked. Blue eyes locked onto his, shimmering with fear and apology. A cloth was tied around her mouth too, soaked with tears and muffling her whimpers.

Mark growled low in his throat, struggling against the restraints. The chair creaked beneath him.

Movement to his right caught his eye.

He turned just in time to see a fist fly at him.

Crack!

Pain exploded through his cheekbone, his head snapping sideways. Mark grunted, blood spilling from his lip.

“Awake now, soldier?” came the voice. Smooth, venomous. Unhinged.

Mark blinked, eyes narrowing as his attacker stepped into view.

It was him.

William… no. Victor.

He looked like the man from the case photos—same facial structure—but older. Wilder. His once short, clean-cut hair was long now, greasy and disheveled. Scars crisscrossed his face, one trailing from the corner of his left brow down to his jawline. His eyes gleamed with unfiltered madness.

William held a file in his hand, flipping it open like he was reviewing a résumé.

“Markus Douglas Marshalls,” William read aloud, circling the chair like a predator stalking its prey. “Born March 21st, 1992. Mother abandoned the family when you were four, died in a car crash when he was seven. Father… oh, here we go… a raging alcoholic. That’s tragic.”

Mark glared at him, his breath heavy through his nose.

Victor paced behind him while William continued to read his file. “Joined the military at eighteen. Overachiever. Raised through the ranks. Did a few tours overseas. Joined Black Ops.” He tsked. “Ah, yes. The Black Ops mission. The one that went south. Lone survivor.”

He moved in front of Mark again, tapping the file thoughtfully. “Critical injury to your right shoulder and chest. Resulted in some titanium, huh?” He leaned in. “Purple Heart. Honorably discharged. Joined the force. Became a detective.”

William slowly closed the file.

“Well…” Victor tilted his head, grinning. “You sound like a stand-up guy.”

Then the grin dropped.

“But alas,” William whispered, “still not good enough for my little angel.”

Without warning, Victor drove a punch into Mark’s side—right under the ribs.

Mark groaned, bending forward as much as the restraints allowed, pain shooting through his torso.

Ronnie screamed behind the gag, her body jerking against the chains as she watched.

Victor turned to her, amused. “Oh, sweetheart… you care about him?” he asked softly, as if asking if she liked a puppy at the pet store.

Ronnie’s eyes filled again, and her head gave a small, trembling nod.

William chuckled.

“She really likes you, soldier,” he said, mocking. “Cute.”

He glanced back at Ronnie, his expression twisting as he strode toward her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek with a gentleness that made her flinch, making Mark want to rip his throat out.

“You always did have soft eyes,” William said to her. “Always so trusting. Even when you shouldn’t have been.” He looked her up and down. “And look at you now. All grown up. But still mine.”

Ronnie flinched, turning her face away.

William turned back to Mark and shrugged.

“She has a type, I guess,” he said casually. “I tried to let her go, you know. Tried to find others like her. Girls with platinum hair and pale skin. Fragile voices. But none of them were her.”

He walked to a table in the corner of the room, grabbing something—a knife. He turned it slowly in the light, then set it down.

“Did you know,” he said conversationally, “I had Victor kill all the men she tried to replace me with?”

Victor lifted his hand, ticking off fingers as he counted.

“A nurse. A tennis player. Guitarist. A teacher. And what was that last one… oh right. A vet.”

William clicked his tongue and shook his head. “All soft. All unworthy. They weren’t me.”

He turned again to Ronnie. “You really thought any of them could protect you like I can? Love you like I do?”

Ronnie's chest heaved with sobs, her wrists trembling in the chains. Her eyes pleaded with Mark.

Mark’s muscles flexed under the restraints, testing the give in the chair. The ropes burned against his skin, but he didn’t care. He had to get free.

William approached him again, crouching so their faces were nearly level.

“You think she’s going to choose you?” he asked, voice low. “You’re just the next in line, Mark. The new obsession. But when you’re gone?” He smiled. “She’ll still be mine.”

Mark stared into William’s eyes—those wild, rabid eyes—and what he saw there chilled him more than the winter outside.

There was no reasoning with him.

William wasn’t just a stalker. He wasn’t even just a killer.

He was something else.

A predator carved from delusion and madness. Someone who had made Ronnie his fantasy, his religion, his purpose.

And Mark was the heretic.

William stood and stretched, as if this was all a game. “I think it’s about time we get to the final act,” he said, grinning toward Ronnie. “Don’t you, angel?”

Ronnie screamed through the cloth, thrashing wildly in her chains.

Mark’s pulse surged.

He couldn’t wait.

He had to break free.

Now.