Page 80 of Fractured Devotion
“I’m not trying to scare you, Celeste. I’m trying to make sure you wake up tomorrow.”
She studies me for a long second with something unreadable in her expression. Then, she nods. “Okay. I’ll go upstairs tonight.”
“Good,” I murmur. “You need the rest.”
She straightens up slightly, her expression cooling again, as if catching herself getting too close.
She doesn’t say anything, but she nods once, just barely.
We both head back toward the car, and I quickly open the car door for her before she can reach for it. She slides inside with a sigh, pulls the seatbelt across her body, then watches methrough the glass as I round the front and slip into the driver’s seat.
The ride back is quiet, but not empty.
Chapter 27 – Celeste - Thin Walls
The silence in the car isn’t uncomfortable. It’s taut, but not threatening. Not anymore. Kade drives like someone who’s always thinking three steps ahead, but for once, I don’t feel like I’m the target of that thinking. Not exactly.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. The streetlights outside catch against the angles of his face, casting sharp shadows across his jaw. He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. There’s too much I don’t want to give voice to. Not yet.
When we pull up in front of the clinic, he puts the car in park but doesn’t kill the engine. The faint hum fills the cabin like a heartbeat. He glances at me, the question in his eyes before it leaves his lips.
“You’ll be okay?”
I nod. “I’ll go up.”
He doesn’t move. He just studies me for another second before finally nodding once. “Don’t answer the door for anyone. Not even staff. Not tonight.”
His voice is edged with something too sharp to be concern alone. Possessiveness, maybe. Or guilt.
I reach for the door handle, and then I pause. “Thanks for the drive.”
His response is a slow, unreadable look. “Lock it behind you.”
I step out into the cool night, the sound of the door closing like a gunshot in the stillness. He doesn’t pull away until I’m inside the building.
The backup apartment is exactly as I left it. Sparse, clean, and cold. There’s a cot in the corner, a coffee machine on the counter, and blackout curtains drawn tight over the onlywindow. It’s the kind of space meant for surviving, not living. But tonight, that’s enough.
I shower quickly, scrubbing away the day’s tension, Kade’s scent, and the invisible residue of eyes I can’t find. I towel off, wrap myself in a cotton robe, and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the far wall like it might offer answers.
It doesn’t.
The memory of the photo claws up from my chest. My body, curled under the sheets, and the vulnerability of sleep turned into something perverse. Someone was in that room, watching and framing.
I feel nauseous again.
I grab my journal—a new one, since the old one is buried under too much blood and implication—and I start to write. It’s not poetry or confessions. Just a log with the date, time, what I know, what I suspect, and what I fear.
I don’t hear any knocks until the third time.
My head jerks up, my spine snapping straight. I set the journal down slowly, stand, and approach the door with measured steps. I don’t say anything. I just press my ear against the wood.
“Celeste. It’s Alec.”
My pulse stutters.
I unlock the door but leave the chain on. It opens just a crack. “What are you doing here?”
His face looks drawn, his eyes shadowed. “Can I come in?”
