Page 184 of Fractured Devotion
Sharp.
He looks away first, but not before I catch the faintest flicker of something beneath his carefully neutral mask.
He’s been dragging her attention for too long, making her laugh in places I can’t see, and holding her in ways I haven’t allowed myself to watch.
I let it slide. For now.
I have other wars to fight.
I slip into my office, shutting the door behind me and settling into the chair like slipping into a second skin.
And then I wait.
Because I know her.
And I know she’ll come.
The knock comes an hour later.
It’s soft. Purposeful.
I don’t answer.
She opens the door anyway.
Celeste.
She’s dressed in a sleek, form-fitting dress—sharp and controlled—and every line of her body hums with gentle command. “Get up,” she says, her voice soft but edged with steel.
There’s no pretense in her tone, no room for games.
I rise without a word, slipping my tablet into my pocket and adjusting my jacket as I stand.
Her eyes rake over me, cool and assessing.
“We go now,” she says.
“Now?” I arch a brow, though my pulse kicks at the idea of it.
“You said you’d take me there,” she reminds me, her voice steady but cold. “Sublevel two. Archive wing. No delays. No excuses. It’s time.”
She doesn’t wait for my response. She turns and walks out, expecting me to follow.
And I do.
We move through the hushed hallways of the clinic, our footsteps muted against the polished floors.
Then we go down.
Past Diagnostics.
Past restricted wards.
To the lower levels where few ever walk.
Sublevel two.
The air grows colder and denser, and the walls hum with old wiring and forgotten systems.
