Page 54 of Blood & Snow

Later, after helping the children with homework and tucking them into bed, I lie in my own bed staring at the burner phone Xander gave me.

The device sits silent on my nightstand, waiting for his call or my message.

I've been avoiding contact since leaving his apartment this morning, trying to process what happened between us and what it means for my future.

The memory of his hands on my body refuses to fade.

I can still feel the weight of him above me, still hear his voice claiming ownership over me with absolute certainty.

I can definitely say he owns a part of me that I'll never get back, but I'm not sure how to feel about that.

Part of me craves more of that intensity, more of the way he made me feel desired and protected simultaneously.

But another part recognizes the trap I'm walking into.

Every night with him pulls me deeper into his world while making it harder to maintain connections to my own.

I pick up the phone and stare at the blank screen.

My thumb hovers over the keypad while I consider what to say.

How do you ask a man who kills people for a living what his intentions are toward you?

How do you demand clarity about a relationship built on violence alone?

Finally, I type a message.

Nadya 9:12 PM: What is happening between us?

I stare at the words for a long time before pressing send.

The message disappears into the digital void, carrying myconfusion and need for understanding.

Now I wait for his response while my heart pounds with anticipation and fear.

The phone buzzes within minutes.

His reply appears on the screen in stark black text.

Xander 9:13 PM: You belong to me. There's no choice in the matter.

His certainty calls to something primitive in me that responds to dominance and possession.

I find myself smiling at the words even though they still don't bring the clarity I need.

Does belonging to him mean he uses me until he's finished and throws me away like a toy he no longer wants?

Or does belonging to him mean he cherishes me forever, builds a life with me, and stains me so no one will ever touch me?

I type and delete several responses, unable to find words that capture my conflicted feelings.

Part of me wants to assert my independence, to remind him that I'm a person with agency and choices.

But a larger part thrills at his declaration of ownership, at being claimed by someone powerful enough to protect what he considers his.

The phone sits in my hands while I struggle with responses I can't send and feelings I don't want to acknowledge.

My finger hovers over the keypad, cursor blinking at the end of an empty message box.