Page 7 of Shadows of Obsession
Connor settled on the edge of the glass coffee table, his posture relaxed yet attentive as he faced me, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and unwavering support. He rested his hands on his knees, a silent gesture of encouragement, a quiet promise that he would be there, no matter what I had to say.
The minutes ticked by in heavy, anticipatory silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us. Connor sensed the gravity of the moment, understood the courage it had taken for me even to be here. I struggled internally, trying to determine where to begin and how to explain what I could barely understand myself.
With a patience born from years of friendship, of the unshakable bond we shared, Connor remained steady. His focus never wavered from my face. He knew I needed time, needed the space to gather my thoughts and find the strength to give voice to the horrors that had driven me to his doorstep.
As he waited, Connor studied me. It had been years since he'd seen me in person, and the last time we'd spoken over FaceTime was almost a year ago. I could tell he noticed the changes immediately—the subtle yet undeniable signs of stress and hardship.
My blonde hair, which once shimmered in the sunlight, now hung dull and limp down to the middle of my back. My blue eyes, once bright and full of life, were shadowed, their vibrant sparkle replaced by a weariness that spoke of sleepless nights and endless worry. My cheeks had hollowed, a clear sign of weight loss, and my skin was pale, almost translucent, as if I hadn't been outside in ages. Which, truthfully, I hadn't. Daniel had preferred that I stay inside.
The Anna he remembered had been filled with happiness and energy—her laugh infectious, her spirit unbreakable. The woman sitting across from him now was a stark contrast. A thin, frail version of the friend he'd once known. I saw the shock in his eyes, the immediate pity mixed with concern, and I winced internally, realizing how clearly the ordeal was etched onto my face.
At last, the words came, a whispered confession that seemed to echo in the stillness of the room.
"He found me," I breathed, my eyes fixed on the floor, my voice trembling. I breathed the words, the truth heavy in the air between us now that it was finally spoken.
At my words, Connor's jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists on his knees, a silent manifestation of the rage burning within him. But even as his emotions threatened to consume him, he kept his composure, his focus never wavering from me.
Connor leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on my face as he waited for me to continue.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the soft ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece. Even in that stillness, Connor could sense the weight of my unspoken words, the pain and fear simmering just beneath the surface.
When it became clear that I might need a gentle nudge, Connor spoke, his voice soft.
"When did he find you?"
I drew a deep breath, my shoulders rising and falling with the effort.
"Four days ago," I whispered, my eyes never leaving Connor's face. Four days of running. Four days of looking over my shoulder.
Connor's expression tightened, his brows furrowing. Four days. It seemed like an eternity and a heartbeat all at once.
"Four days ago," he echoed, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Did he… did he hurt you?"
The question hung in the air, loaded with unspoken fears. I swallowed hard, my throat working with the effort as one hand drifted unconsciously to my wrist, an old habit from when I would try to hide bruises.
"No," I said at last, my voice soft but clear. "But he found me, Connor. I don't know how, but he did. I've been so careful. I was going to try and start over there." The look of defeat on my face confessed the failure of months of careful planning and hiding.
"I'm glad you're here, Anna," he said at last, his voice gentle. "You're safe now. We'll figure this out together."
With those words, he rose from the table, his movements fluid as he stretched. Together, we made our way toward the front of the house, toward my truck.
We began unloading my meager belongings: two duffel bags, a backpack, and a small box of essentials. With each bag we carried, each step we took toward the house, I felt the weight of my past begin to lift as it was replaced by a growing sense of possibility.
Connor led the way up the staircase and down the hall, his strides purposeful. We passed several closed doors—guest rooms, a bathroom, his office. And then, at last, we reached our destination.
"Here we are," Connor said softly, his hand resting on the doorknob, his eyes meeting mine with warmth. "I hope you like it. I had it remodeled when Sam called and told me you’d be coming here."
With a gentle push, he opened the door, revealing a spacious room with a plush king-size bed dressed in pristine white linens. "Holy shit, Connor, this is too much," I whispered, my voice thick with wonder and disbelief. The room felt impossibly luxurious after months of squalid motels, making me feel undeserving of such comfort.
The room was a masterpiece of comfort and elegance. Soft hues of blue and cream adorned the walls, their gentle tones soothing. The plush carpet beneath my feet felt like a cloud, cushioning my every step as I moved deeper into the room. Large windows framed breathtaking views of the sprawling ranch below, the paddocks and barns spread out like a postcard.
The bed took center stage against the far wall, its headboard carved from dark oak with intricate patterns. In the corner to the right of the bed was a cozy reading nook with a cushioned bench topped with plump pillows in varying shades of blue, dappled with warm sunlight filtering through sheer curtains. Above the bench, a wide window overlooked the ranch. I looked at the reading nook, recognizing the luxury of simple leisure that had been absent from my life for far too long.
To the left of the bed, another large window let in more natural light. Across from the reading nook, a door led to the master bathroom, its smooth wooden surface blending seamlessly with the rest of the furnishings.
My fingers trailed along the polished wood of the dresser and matching nightstands, both crafted from rich mahogany with distinct grain patterns. The furniture was arranged thoughtfully, creating a flow that felt open and welcoming without being cluttered.
Gratitude surged through me, mixed with a stinging sense of unworthiness, making it difficult to meet his gaze.