Page 37 of Fractured Devotion
I grab the report that’s due for submission and head out of the office.
As I head toward the west exit, I tug my coat tighter and step into the dull corridor hum. The delivery is just a formality. Likely one of Rourke’s sealed briefcases with no name and even less context, but it gets me outside and gives me an excuse to walk off the heat burning beneath my skin.
The cold air bites the moment I step out. It’s not freezing, but it’s sharp enough to jolt the mind clear. I head for the drop point behind the west loading bay, the kind of place where shadows gather faster than sound. The package is already there. It’s a plain gray case with a standard lock. Rourke’s usual stamp.
I crouch, retrieve it, and pause a moment longer than needed.
From here, I can see the edge of the path Celeste usually takes on her way home. I can’t see her now, but my mind fills in the rest anyway. Her expression in profile, the sharp way she pulls her sleeves over her wrists when she’s cold, the rhythm of her heels over concrete.
I breathe her in even when she’s not here.
When I turn back, the case is heavier than it should be. Or maybe it’s just me.
With the sealed case under my arm, I step back inside through the west corridor and let the sterile scent of the clinic wrap itself around me. The transition from cold air to recycled warmth is stark, jarring in a way that only tightens the unease threading under my ribs. The halls feel dimmed now. Midday slump. The kind of lull where secrets find new cracks to settle in.
I pass a nurse wheeling a tray of sealed vials, nod at a technician adjusting a bio-readout screen, and take in the stale scent of industrial coffee wafting from the corner breakroom. But it’s all background noise.
I’m already threading through what I need to say and what I need to not say as I push through the office wing door and head for Rourke’s door.
I step in, tension coiled under my skin, and hand him the case, followed by the report with no preamble. He accepts it without comment, and I stand silent, watching him skim through it. The silence is intentional. He clicks his pen once, twice, each sound drawn out, then taps it against the desk as though weighing every word on the page.
“The backups were successfully installed?”
“Yes. Reinforced signal encryption on all main interfaces. The blind spots in her corridor have been minimized.”
Rourke nods. “And she hasn’t noticed anything?”
“No,” I lie, keeping my tone even. “She suspects nothing.”
His gaze lingers on me longer than I like. Then he nods again. “Good. I want deeper access to her auxiliary logs by next week. And Kade—”
“Yes?”
He pauses. “Don’t underestimate her. She might look fractured, but that woman built half this place from theory alone. She’s sharper than you think.”
“I’m counting on it.”
That earns me a brief smile. Rourke turns back to his screen, and I take that as dismissal. As I move toward the door, a knock lands on the other side.
I open it, and she’s there.
Celeste.
For half a second, neither of us moves. Her eyes flash with something unreadable before she smooths it over.
“Dr. Varon,” I say.
“Mr. Lorran.”
I step aside to let her in. We pass each other, our arms nearly brushing. I catch her scent again—clean linen, lab sterilizer, and something darker underneath. Something I can’t name but know I’d chase if it lingered longer.
I don’t look back. But I feel her.
Out in the hallway, I keep walking, but not fast. I walk just far enough to pretend I didn’t just inhale the moment like oxygen. Far enough not to turn around and burn whatever professional line still exists between us.
She’s in his office, presenting updates. Maybe lying through her teeth, maybe not. But something shifted in her today. I saw it the second our eyes met. She’s less guarded. More dangerous.
And I want to know why.
