Page 197 of Fractured Devotion
Her eyes flick between us, unreadable.
“This isn’t a contest,” she says, her voice clipped. “And I don’t need either of you fighting over me.”
Silence stretches long and tight.
“You really think you can survive this path you’re walking?” I ask, my voice rough, something desperate bleeding through.
Celeste tilts her chin defiantly. “I’m not just surviving,” she says softly. “I’m becoming.”
The words chill me in ways I can’t explain.
Kade watches her with something strange in his eyes. Pride, maybe. Or something darker.
“You always knew she was meant for more than your little boxes of rules,” Kade says, his voice almost gentle but laced with venom.
I shake my head slowly, the weight of it sinking in.
“You think this is evolution? You think this is freedom?” I ask, my voice breaking slightly.
Celeste steps closer, her eyes burning into mine. “It’s mine,” she says, the finality in her tone absolute.
Her words leave me hollow.
She turns without waiting for my response, walking back toward the van with calm, steady steps.
Kade’s gaze lingers on me for a long, unreadable moment. Then he smirks, wicked and sharp, before following after her.
I watch them go as I stand alone in the shadows, the taste of her kiss still burning on my mouth.
And all I can think is:She isn’t coming back.
Not to me.
Not to anyone.
Chapter 56 – Kade - Smoke and Teeth
The city looks different from the rooftops. Smaller. Easier.
I light a cigarette, letting the smoke curl through the early evening air as I watch the street below. Dunlay’s penthouse glows in the distance, tucked high above the rest, like he thinks altitude can save him.
Celeste is gone. After the dockyard, she went back to her place, her territory, where she could retreat and regroup on her terms. She didn’t ask me to follow. I watched her walk away, her steps steady, her head high.
And I let her go.
Because tonight isn’t about her.
I have my own work to finish. Dirty work.
Work she doesn’t need to see.
I can’t drag her into this. Not into the filth I intend to drown these people in.
I’m not built for peace.
The blade feels steady in my hand, cool against the leather glove stretched tightly over my palm as I weigh it. I always wear gloves on nights like this—not out of fear, but ritual. Clean hands, dirty work.
Tonight isn’t about messages.
