Obsessed

Chapter 53

The cold wind hit her like a slap to the face as William dragged Ronnie out of the cabin by her wrist. The sky overhead was dark, the woods cloaked in eerie stillness except for the sharp crackle of snow beneath their feet.

“Let me go,” she rasped, voice raw from screaming.

But William didn’t even flinch. His grip only tightened.

Inside the cabin, the gasoline fumes thickened as Victor stood before Mark like a twisted preacher delivering his final sermon.

Mark’s head lolled slightly, pain and blood loss dragging at him—but his eyes remained razor sharp, locked on the man standing in front of him.

Victor crouched with a sigh, tilting his head at Mark with the casual arrogance of a man who thought he’d already won.

“If only you’d listened,” Victor muttered, shaking his head. “If you’d just stayed the hell away from Veronica… this wouldn’t have happened.”

Mark said nothing, blood dripping steadily from the gash in his thigh. Every muscle in his body screamed, but his mind was focused. Watching. Calculating.

Victor reached into his coat, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it slowly with a silver Zippo. The flame danced in the reflection of Mark’s eyes.

“But… I can’t really blame you,” Victor continued, exhaling smoke like a dragon. “She’s… filled out, hasn’t she? That tight little ass. Those big t**s. Those hips.” He chuckled darkly. “With a body like that? A man would be stupid not want to taste it.”

Mark’s hands flexed subtly against the ropes, his fingers inching along the wood. There. A frayed knot. A sliver of give.

Victor stood and walked behind him, taunting.

“You think you were the first, soldier boy? You weren’t. You were just the latest fool thinking you could save her. That you were different. That she’d be different. But girls like her—” he leaned in, voice low, venomous “—they’re just beautiful poison. Sweet on the outside. Rotten all the way through.”

Mark exhaled through his nose, steadying his breathing as his fingers found the weak spot in the rope and began to work it. Slow. Careful.

“She begged for you,” Victor added with a smirk, walking around to face him again. “Called him Daddy. Sounded like she meant it too. Almost made me jealous.”

A low sound rumbled from Mark’s throat—somewhere between a growl and a death threat.

Victor leaned in again, eyes gleaming. “Let me ask you something, soldier boy… was it worth it? Getting involved with the crazy girl? Losing your job? Bleeding in this shack while she runs off with the man who made her?”

Mark struck.

With a sudden violent jerk, he pulled one hand free—bloodied but loose—and in the same motion slammed his fist upward into Victor’s face.

The impact was sharp and loud, Victor stumbled back with a shocked snarl.

Mark didn’t stop.

Ignoring the fire in his thigh, he wrenched his other hand loose and kicked the ropes off his feet, sending the chair crashing backward.

He hit the ground hard, pain exploding through his side. But he rolled, pushed himself up, and stood.

Victor recovered quickly, wiping blood from his nose, his smile now feral.

“You’ve got fight,” he said, cracking his neck. “Good. I was getting bored.”

The two men squared off.

Both former Special Ops.

Both killers.

Victor lunged first, throwing a vicious right hook. Mark blocked it, twisted, and landed an elbow to Victor’s ribs. The older man grunted but came back fast, grabbing Mark’s wounded thigh and driving a knee into it.

Pain flared like lightning, and Mark dropped to one knee.

Victor raised his fists and struck again, slamming them down toward Mark’s skull—but Mark shifted, catching Victor’s arm and pulling him forward. He used Victor’s momentum against him, throwing him to the ground with a grunt.

They rolled, fists flying, grunts and curses echoing through the empty cabin.

Victor fought dirty—aiming for the leg, jabbing at Mark’s wound.

But Mark was stronger. Smarter.

Fueled by rage.

Fueled by her.

Victor pinned him for a brief moment, but Mark twisted his body, using the ropes still tied around his wrist as leverage. He slammed Victor’s head into the floorboards, once, twice—until the man’s grip loosened.

Mark rolled them again, straddling him, driving a fist into his face so hard the man’s head snapped to the side.

Blood sprayed across the wooden floor.

Victor groaned.

Mark grabbed a broken piece of the chair and pressed it to Victor’s throat.

Victor choked, gasping, as Mark’s face hovered above his, dark with fury and blood.

“If she dies…” Mark growled, eyes burning, “I’ll make you suffer before I kill him.”

Victor smirked through cracked lips, even as he struggled to breathe. “You’re already too late…”

Mark didn’t care.

With a shout, he slammed the wood against Victor’s temple.

The body beneath him went still.

Panting, Mark collapsed to the floor beside him.

Every inch of him throbbed, bleeding and broken—but he was alive.

The cabin was soaked in gasoline.

Mark could smell it in every breath, clinging to his throat like poison. The air stung his eyes, thick with fumes and blood. He stumbled to his feet, muscles trembling with exhaustion, but he didn’t stop.

Victor’s body lay motionless behind him, head bleeding into the floorboards.

Mark limped toward the door, grabbing the silver Zippo lighter Victor had taunted him with earlier. His fingers were shaking, but he struck the flint anyway, watching the tiny flame dance alive.

“Burn in hell,” he whispered hoarsely, and tossed the lighter onto the nearest gas trail.

The fire exploded with a deafening roar, shooting down the line of gasoline like a serpent. Flames licked the floor, then the walls, climbing higher, hungrier. The room lit up instantly, a monstrous glow erupting into the cold night air.

Mark didn’t look back.

He shoved the cabin door open and stumbled outside, the cold hitting him like a shockwave. Blood dripped freely down his leg, soaking through the denim, but he didn’t stop.

His breath came out in ragged clouds, each exhale a mixture of agony and adrenaline.

In the distance—just faint over the wind—he heard them.

Sirens.

The cavalry was coming.

But they’d be too late if he didn’t move now.

His eyes scanned the snow-covered ground, and there—tracks. Two sets. One set of boots, wide and deliberate. The other, lighter, dragged.

Ronnie.

Mark limped after them, following the deep imprints into the woods. Branches snapped underfoot as he pushed forward, weaving between trees, ducking under low limbs. Each step felt like it would be the last, but he kept going.

The deeper he went, the darker it got.

And colder.

The wind whipped through the trees, slicing at his face, howling like a warning. The ground crunched beneath his boots, the snow swallowing sound, muffling everything except the pounding of his heart.

Then—

Crack.

A sharp, unmistakable sound in the distance. Not a branch.

Ice.

Mark quickened his pace, breath catching in his throat.

The trees opened up into a clearing, and beyond it—a vast sheet of frozen blackness glimmering beneath the moonlight.

The lake.

His chest seized at the sight.

Out on the ice, silhouetted by the soft orange glow of the burning cabin behind them, was William.

Dragging her.

Ronnie’s knees scraped across the slick surface, her arms limp at her sides, wrists still bruised and red. Her hair was tangled, splayed behind her like a fallen halo.

Mark’s fists clenched.

“William!” he shouted, voice raw and ragged.

He turned.

And smiled.

“Stay where you are, Mark,” William called out, his voice strangely calm, almost gentle. “Or we both go in.”

The ice beneath his boots groaned in warning.

Mark took a step forward.

Crack.

Not from him—but under William.

The ice shimmered faintly under the moonlight, fractures veining out like spider legs beneath their feet.

“You don’t have to do this!” Mark shouted.

William tilted his head. “You took her from me.”

“She’s not yours.”

“She’s mine,” William snapped, face contorting with madness. “You think she wanted you? She was made for me! Raised by me. Owned by me. And you… you ruined her.”

He reached down and grabbed Ronnie by the hair, yanking her to him using her as a shield. She let out a weak cry, but her eyes found Mark—wet and wide and begging him not to move.

“Let her go, William,” Mark said, stepping cautiously toward the edge of the lake. “It’s over.”

“It’s never over,” William growled. “Not until she comes home with me.”

Mark’s eyes darted to the cracks spreading beneath William’s feet. Thin, black veins across the white ice.

“Then let her go,” Mark said, his voice quieter now. Reasoning. Calculating. “Take me. Just let her go.”

William laughed, high and hollow. “You think I want you? You think I care about killing you? No, Mark… I want you to watch. I want your last breath to be her name.”

Mark felt the cold cutting through his shirt, his body trembling—but it wasn’t fear.

It was fury.

“I’m not letting you take her again,” he said, voice shaking with resolve.

William yanked Ronnie closer, whispering something in her ear. Her body trembled, shoulders curling in. But then—slowly—her hand moved behind her.

Toward the back of William’s belt.

Mark’s eyes narrowed.

She was buying time.

Even broken, even terrified, she was still fighting.

He moved, slowly, one boot onto the edge of the lake.

William turned his head sharply. “Don’t!”

Mark froze.

More cracks.

Longer this time.

Even William looked down, lips parting slightly as he realized just how fragile the ice was under their weight.

Mark’s eyes locked with Ronnie’s.

They didn’t need words.

They never did.