Chapter 2: Paranoia
Content Warning – Read Before Diving In.
This story contains mentions of trauma, PTSD, abuse, stalking, and emotional flashbacks. Basically, the emotional equivalent of stepping on LEGO in the dark.
There will be pain. There will be panic. There will also be strength, stubbornness, sarcasm, and the kind of healing that doesn't look pretty—but counts anyway.
If you're here for sunshine and butterflies, you might wanna grab a different book.
If you're here for broken women who fight back, and rage that feels a lot like power—
Welcome..
Just… breathe with her. She's doing the best she can.
Sleep didn't come easy.
When it did, it came dirty, sharp, cruel. Flashes. His hand twisting in her hair, yanking her head back until her throat ached. His voice whispering sweet things turned sick—twisted promises spat against her skin. A cracked mirror. Blood on white tile. A laugh that didn't belong to a boy anymore, but to something rotten and wrong.
Owen. Always lurking behind Travis. Always smiling too wide. Watching. Waiting. Helping. Hands pinning her wrists. Cold metal against her cheek. Pleading had never worked. Fighting had only earned her worse.
Sometimes she'd believed the lies. Sometimes she'd wanted to. It was easier than the truth:
That love was a cage.
That trust was a loaded gun pressed against the back of her skull.
That survival meant shutting off everything human inside her and learning how to bleed without making a sound.
In the dream, she was running. Barefoot. Breath tearing through her lungs. Travis's voice chasing her down alleys that bent and twisted like broken bones.
Run, Reagan. Run faster.
He would always catch her. He always had.
---
She woke gasping, clawing at the mattress, reaching for the knife she hadn't realized she dropped. Sweat chilled her skin, her whole body trembling—locked in a battle that had ended years ago but never really ended at all.
She hated the control he still had over her.
Hated how the sound of her phone buzzing could snap her spine straight with fear before she could even think.
The texts kept coming. The calls wouldn't stop. New numbers every time. No way to block him. No way to shut him out completely.
It didn't matter how far she ran, how many locks she bolted, how many cities she left behind.
He found ways to reach her.
Little needles under her skin.
Little whispers in her mind.
You can't run from me, Reagan. You'll always be mine.
She crushed the phone in her hand until her knuckles burned. She had deleted every message. Every missed call. But it didn't matter. The words stayed—carved into the walls of her skull like graffiti she could never scrub clean.
You can't hide. You can't win. You can't live without me.
She knew the patterns. The obsession. The promises that sounded like knives instead of vows. Travis and his sick little brother hadn't stopped hunting her. They were patient.
They were waiting.
She could feel it every time she closed her eyes.
And Reagan Wilde didn't believe in second chances. Not anymore.
---
It hit without warning.
One second she was staring out the window, gripping the empty beer bottle like it was an anchor. The next—her chest locked tight. Breath stuck halfway up her throat. Her heart kicked against her ribs like it was trying to tear free.
The edges of the room blurred. Her hands shook uncontrollably. Her skin felt too tight, too hot, and too cold all at once.
She tried to suck in air, but her lungs refused.
The silence pressed down on her, heavy and sharp.
Her mouth opened but no sound came out. It felt like drowning without water. Like screaming into a vacuum.
Her fingers clawed at the floor, grabbing at nothing. Her body remembered terror even when her mind screamed at it to stop.
Get up, Reagan. Breathe. Fight. Move.
But the commands were trapped somewhere far away, unreachable.
In her scramble, she bumped the coffee table and smacked her shin on the edge. "Fuck!" she hissed, tears pricking her eyes.
Then she knocked over the lamp. It crashed. Glass scattered. She flinched so hard she hit her head against the wall.
"Of course," she muttered, forehead pressed to the floor, nails digging into the wood. The sting grounded her.
A broken sob slipped out before she could choke it back. She hated this. Hated him. Hated the way Travis still lived in her skin like a parasite she couldn't cut out.
She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to count:
In. One. Two. Three.
Out. One. Two. Three.
It didn't work. Not at first. But she kept counting, forcing the numbers through the static in her brain until she could finally drag in a shaky breath.
Her body curled tighter, muscles cramping from the tension. Tears blurred her vision. She didn't wipe them away. Didn't move. Didn't dare.
She stayed like that a long time.
Face pressed to the floor.
Heart pounding like war drums.
Until finally, finally, her body began to listen.
She sat up slowly, back against the wall, arms trembling. She dragged her knees to her chest and rocked gently, not even realizing it.
Small movements. Small control.
Brick by brick.
Breath by breath.
Rebuilding the walls inside her.
---
Reagan crossed the room without a word, bumping her hip against the chair as she passed—classic. She ripped open the battered drawer next to the sandbag and pulled out a roll of athletic tape.
She wrapped her hands tight. Fingers steady now. No hesitation.
Layers around her knuckles, wrists, bones.
Protection. Preparation.
She stripped down to a black crop top and worn leggings. Hair yanked into a tight knot. No jewelry. No weaknesses.
Just skin. Blood. Willpower.
She planted her feet. Squared her shoulders.
And launched into the sandbag with vicious, practiced precision.
Jab. Cross. Hook. Left elbow. Right knee. Switch stance.
Kick high. Twist. Pivot.
She slipped. Nearly face-planted. Recovered with a grunt.
"Get your shit together, Rae," she muttered, breath short.
Never the same move twice. Never the same rhythm.
Predictability was death.
She fought the bag like it could bleed.
Her fists burned. Her shins bruised. Sweat soaked her spine.
Still, she didn't stop.
Wouldn't stop.
She struck until her arms shook. Until her lungs heaved.
Then she dropped the stance—and bolted for the door.
No plan. No warning. Just movement.
Barefoot. Down the stairwell. Concrete biting at her heels.
Out into the night.
The city swallowed her whole.
She ran. Fast. Hard.
Cut corners. Slipped between alleyways. Feet hammering the ground. Neon bleeding into pavement.
Never the same route twice.
Left at dumpsters. Over fences. Through parking lots. Up side streets.
Her lungs burned. Her legs screamed.
She didn't listen.
Pain was irrelevant.
Survival was the only thing that mattered.
When she finally stopped, half a city away, she doubled over—panting. Drenched in sweat. Blood smeared across her taped knuckles.
She looked back once.
The streets were empty.
For now.
---
Reagan made it back just before 4 a.m.
Muscles screaming. Lungs raw.
She locked the door. Double-bolted. Stood in the dark, breathing like she'd outrun hell.
She peeled the tape from her hands.
Skin torn. Blood oozing.
She didn't care.
The pain was familiar.
The buzzing was not.
Her phone.
She froze.
One buzz. Two. New message.
Her heart kicked—hard.
Trembling fingers picked it up.
One photo.
Just one.
Her.
Younger. Limp. Bruised. Bloody. Eyes closed.
She remembered the night.
Travis had said he loved her that night.
Travis had said she deserved it.
A sound clawed from her throat—half rage, half grief.
She threw the phone.
It hit the wall. Shattered.
She staggered back, fists to temples. Jaw clenched.
Don't fall apart. Not now. Not again.
But she was.
She couldn't do this alone. Not this time.
She stumbled to the drawer. Pulled out the landline.
Dialed without thinking.
One ring. Two. Three.
Skylar answered. Sleepy. Sharp.
"Rae? What happened?"
"I need you," she whispered. Voice cracking.
No apology.
Skylar didn't need one.
"I'm coming. Stay there."
---
Skylar banged on the door ten minutes later.
Reagan unlocked it with clumsy fingers.
Skylar pushed in. Sweatpants. Wild hair. Eyes wide with fear.
One look at Reagan—bloodied knuckles. Split lip. Phone wreckage—and she asked nothing.
No questions. No judgment.
Just action.
She wrapped Reagan in her arms.
Tight. Solid.
And Reagan broke.
Silent. Violent. Raw.
Her body shook. Tears soaking Skylar's shirt.
She clutched back like drowning.
Skylar held firm.
One hand on her head.
The other around her spine.
No words. No promises.
Just presence.
Reagan had fought alone for so long, she forgot what it felt like to be caught.
And for the first time in years—
She let herself believe she might survive.
Not because she was unbreakable.
But because even broken things could be carried.