Page 39 of Fractured Devotion
I lift the file folder I picked up earlier—a decoy, but not completely random.
She blinks once, confused, then takes it from me slowly. “Thank you.”
I offer a small smile, just the right touch of sheepishness. “Didn’t mean to barge in. I just figured it might save you the trip.”
She doesn’t answer immediately, and her eyes linger on me a beat longer than necessary.
Perfect.
Every lie has to start with a truth buried deep enough to taste like honesty.
She flips the file open absentmindedly, thumbing through the pages, her gaze briefly skimming the content. “I must have dropped this,” she murmurs, but there’s no real certainty in her tone. Her fingers trace the edge of a dog-eared corner like it might explain something her mind can’t.
I nod, staying in place. Not too close, not too distant. Her eyes lift again, scanning my face with that unreadable tension that always makes her look like she’s seconds from unraveling or striking.
“You’ve been around the clinic a lot lately,” she says carefully.
“Part of the job,” I reply, giving a faint shrug. “Lots of holes to patch. Rourke wants everything secure.”
She nods. Her body shifts just slightly, no longer defensive but not quite relaxed either. A crack in the façade.
I take it in with a satisfaction that doesn't need to be spoken, then tuck the moment away for later. I’ve left a piece of me in her space now, and that’s enough for today.
“Well, thank you,” she says, the words clipped but sincere.
“Of course,” I say, then turn, slipping out before she can close the gap with more questions.
My pulse steadies only when the door shuts behind me. Her scent still clings to the air. It’s sharp, clean, and like something feral hidden beneath civility.
Perfect.
Back in the monitoring room, I take my seat. The screens hum softly, offering flickers of her in fragments, from the curve of her shoulder to the brush of her hand across her notes to the slight tilt of her lips as she exhales.
Tomorrow, I’ll make another move. Subtle and closer.
But tonight, I watch.
And I want.
It thrills me more than it should, the fact that I now have eyes in every corner she occupies—her office, the hallway, the lab, her apartments. I’ve placed the pieces methodically, lovingly. My screens are mosaics of her life, a gallery of stolen intimacy. Every movement she makes is mine to see. Everybreath, every flick of her pen, or the way she glances over her shoulder when she thinks she’s alone.
And when she retreats to any of her apartments, I’ll be there, watching her too. For now, I make do with the clinic. With this.
It’s not just control.
It’s worship.
The kind that strips the distance between watcher and watched until there’s nothing left but heat and obsession.
Chapter 14 – Celeste - Fault Lines
I don’t remember the last time the air in my office felt this thick.
Maybe it’s the light that’s softer now, pooling near the window like it doesn’t want to disturb the rest of the room. Maybe it’s the folder in my hand—the one Kade just brought in. My name is on the label. And it’s in my handwriting. But I don’t remember leaving it anywhere near Rourke’s desk.
I set it on my desk cautiously, as if it might bite. Then I sit back, but not fully. My spine stays stiff and angled, my every joint tense. The overhead lights buzz faintly. Everything feels louder lately. The sound of paper shifting, the hushed whir of the tablet on standby, my own measured inhale and exhale.
Kade’s presence still lingers. He was here for only a few minutes, but it stretches longer in my mind. The way he looked at me. Calm, attentive, too controlled, and underneath it all, something else. Something hungrier than he lets show.
