Page 50 of Fractured Devotion
I shift in my seat, adjust myself, and swallow something hot and sharp.
She’s made for ruin.
For devotion that doesn’t ask permission.
She looks exhausted, but I’m no longer thinking about her exhaustion. I’m thinking about the curve of her spine and the way her hip moved as she crossed the room.
I’m thinking about what it would sound like if she said my name, not in fear, but in surrender. Soft and needy. A sound scraped from the back of her throat as she surrendered.
Because she finally realizes I’m the only one who sees her clearly. The only one who would dismantle her with reverence.
The only one who knows exactly how to make her unravel.
Eventually, she drapes herself onto the couch in the living room, and her body settles like water curling into the curve of a shore. The bowl clinks faintly against the table. Her hand drifts toward the edge of the cushion, deep in thought, and it makes me wonder what exactly is running through her mind.
Her shirt rides higher now, and I see the pale line of her hip and the fine twitch of muscle beneath it as sleep takes her under.
She sleeps like she wants to be caught.
And I watch her like a man born with shackles in his bloodstream who’s finally seeing what they were made for.
I exhale, my jaw tight.
This is the version of her that no one else sees.
Raw, unperformed, waiting.
Waiting for something.
Or someone.
She shifts, barely. One leg extends over the throw blanket, her toes peeking out. She’s barefoot and unprotected. Her mouth parts slightly in sleep, a flicker of restlessness working across her brow.
Not peace. She doesn’t know peace.
I watch.
But not for data. Not anymore.
The urge to touch the screen rises, my thumb pressing instinctively toward her temple. But I stop myself. I’ve learned to trace her contours without leaving fingerprints.
Movement outside breaks the moment. The bell above the bakery door jingles, and a faint scuff of soles on the tiles draws my eye toward the counter.
A waitress moves past, refilling a sugar tray near the register. Her presence disrupts nothing, but I catalog the detail anyway.
It’s routine and harmless. Not the van.
That left a while back, gliding out of sight just before Celeste slipped out of the bakery and into her apartment. Still, its absence buzzes in my skull.
Interesting.
Whatever that surveillance was, it wasn’t random. And she waited it out like someone who’s been watched before.
Still, whoever they are, they’re not watching her like I do.
The waitress returns with my coffee. Her shoes squeak faintly on the tile.
“You good?” she asks, the cup already halfway to the table.
