Page 110 of Fractured Devotion
His jaw tightens, like I’ve touched something private.
“I didn’t kill her,” he says.
“I know,” I say.
He doesn’t seem to believe me. But I don’t think he’s meant to.
I reach over and let my fingers brush his chest. I feel his heartbeat, steady and relentless beneath my palm. I don’t say anything more. He closes his eyes briefly, something flickering in his expression. Is it regret? Relief? I can’t tell.
We don’t talk much after that. We just lie there in silence. It’s the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but too full to speak into.
Eventually, I get up and gather my clothes slowly. My body aches deliciously, each movement a reminder of what we did. What I asked for. What I needed.
Kade watches me dress without comment, propped up against the headboard.
“I need to go back,” I say.
“To the clinic?”
“To what’s left of it.”
He nods. There’s no protest, no questions. Just an acknowledgment that whatever we are, it doesn’t need explaining.
I pause at the door, turning back once.
“Don’t follow me unless I ask you to,” I tell him.
His lips twitch in almost a smile. “You’ll ask.”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I step into the hallway, letting the cool air slip into my skin like resolve. Whatever happened tonight, it didn’t break me.
But it sure as hell changed me.
Chapter 35 – Alec - Clean Hands, Dirty Minds
I’m earlier than usual today because I haven’t slept. It’s not because I couldn’t, but because I didn’t want to.
The air outside the clinic smells like old cement and bitter coffee.
Celeste stands near the north entrance, talking to Mara. Her posture is steel-straight, her gray suit buttoned with precision, all edges and intent. Mara fidgets, glancing over Celeste’s shoulder every few seconds. She looks like someone carrying too many secrets in too small a body. Celeste murmurs something, then nods and walks off without looking back. It’s subtle, but I see it—the way her jaw tenses just a little too tight. It’s like she’s holding something in.
The mood in the clinic has shifted. Everyone says Harper jumped. That she was unraveling, and no one could have seen it coming.
Bullshit.
I’ve seen enough dead bodies to know when one doesn’t add up. Harper didn’t just jump. And someone made sure no one could ask the right questions.
Reyes is waiting for me in my office. He’s already seated in my guest chair, a thermos in one hand, a tablet glowing in the other.
“You look like hell,” I say, dropping into my seat.
“You look worse,” he replies flatly. “And you’re not going to like what I’ve found.”
He turns the screen toward me. I squint at the data, the timestamped stress indicators, the elevated cortisol spikes, and the micro-patterns of fear that seem to align with a repeating external presence.
“These are Harper’s?”
