Their Midnight Obsession | 18+

Chapter 30

LUNA'S POV

My eyes gradually fluttered open to an unfamiliar warmth. As my vision adjusted, I found myself lying next to Logan, my head resting on his chest. His rhythmic normal breathing offered a stark contrast to the chaos within me. My eyes felt heavy, head spinning with the lingering pain of the events from before.

The dim light in the room cast shadows that danced on the walls. The memories of the night flooded back—a horrifying sequence of events that left my heart heavy with grief. I turned my gaze, and my eyes fell upon the lifeless form of the little girl, now in a body bag a few feet away. The reality of her tragic fate struck me like a cruel blow.

Tears welled up in my eyes, silent witnesses to the grief that weighed on my soul. My breath caught in my throat as I tried to contain my sobs, the pain in my chest mirroring the anguish in my heart.

Logan, seemingly undisturbed in sleep, remained oblivious to my silent cries. I bit my trembling lip, desperate to stifle the sound of my sorrow. My hands clutched at my chest, as if trying to contain the overwhelming emotions threatening to consume me.

In the quiet solitude of that dimly lit basement, I wept for the innocence lost, for the choices forced upon me, and for the haunting images of my assault that would forever be etched in my memory.

My feeble attempt to distance myself from him was met with the unyielding grip of his arm around me. His nails dug into my flesh, felt like chains, restraining me both physically and mentally.

Disgust and hatred welled up within me as I felt the weight of his hold. He, the architect of my torment, had taken everything from me. The memories of Sebastian's death, Claudia's demise, and the gruesome events of the previous night gnawed at my sanity. He was a puppet master with no remorse, orchestrating a symphony of pain. My mind recalled the crimes he committed, each memory a painful wound that refused to heal.

As I struggled against his grip, recollecting the psychopath had turned me into an instrument of cruelty, forcing me to take a life. The little girl's face haunted me, and I couldn't escape the knowledge that my hands were stained with the innocence I had been forced to extinguish.

"I feel like I'm seeing my mom's dead body in this bag," his voice wavered, each word a testament to the profound grief etched into his very being.

I, still reeling from the shock of the recent events, looked into his eyes and saw not just the man who had inflicted unspeakable horrors upon me but a wounded soul desperately grasping at the fragments of a shattered past.

His gaze, once harboring a twisted sense of pleasure in my torment, now bore the weight of countless scars. "I was just five, when my dad first raped me," he began, the echoes of a traumatic childhood reverberating in his words.

"He was abusive, a drug addict, and spent most of his time in jail. My mom tried to protect me from his abuse, but when she confronted him, he erupted in rage."

His words painted a visceral picture of the young boy who had faced the horrors of domestic violence, a victim of a cycle of torment that had left him scarred and numb to the core.